


Return of the Dragonborn

by loopsfromafountainpen



Series: Return of the Dragonborn [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship, Gen, No pairings - Freeform, Novelization, Semi-graphic killing of draugr and dragons, Tagging major characters only, Tags updated as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-06-27 11:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loopsfromafountainpen/pseuds/loopsfromafountainpen
Summary: A quest to avert tragedy leads a Windhelm Bosmer to Helgen, where she discovers a legend… and a destiny far greater than any she could have imagined. (Novelization, Eventually AU)





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Long Day, a Shock, and a Bad Diagnosis

Ori stood in the small stairwell that led to the Windhelm charity house’s upper level, shivering as she fiddled with the apartment key. True, she’d re-lit the main hall’s dying fire when she first walked inside, but not even a fireplace could cut through that day’s bitter frost. Particularly cold days like this made the bosmer girl feel guilty for teasing her dad about his complaining. She sighed as the lock gave with a small click. That lock always gave them trouble at the most inconvenient times, like when she could barely balance an overflowing basket of groceries after a long day of running errands for Nurelion. She shoved herself past the wooden door, pulling her market basket along behind her. Leaning against the door to close it, Ori dropped the basket, and began pulling off her outer coat.

“Dad?” she called, draping the coat over a chair near the door.

Aside from the quiet crackling of the fireplace, the small apartment was oddly silent. It was clear he hadn’t cooked anything for dinner. As the city bell finished its evening chiming, Ori glanced over at the candle clock above the hearth: ‘round about eight in the evening. By this time, her dad should have someone seated at the table, pouring their problems out to him over a bottle of red wine. (Become a priest of Mara, become everyone’s problem-solver, he’d once said, only half joking.) Maybe he’d just gone out unexpectedly. She moved the basket to the table to unload later. No notes; his golden priest robes lay in a small pile on the kitchen table. An unfamiliar sense of worry rose up and caught at the back of her throat.

“Dad?” she repeated, quieter than before, making her way towards the apartment’s back room. Again, no response.

She nearly tripped over him at the doorway. With a loud gasp, Ori sprung back a couple feet. Erandur lay crumpled near the foot of his bed; the worry that had gathered in her throat dropped to the very bottom of her stomach.

Ori stood frozen for only a moment before scrambling to pull him onto the bed. His tunic was already drenched in sweat and he shivered when she pushed a pillow under his head. He was paler than she’d ever seen him. Ori released a shuddering breath before flying to the cabinet in the entry way for a healing potion. She fumbled with the different-colored potions before picking a plentiful healing and a stamina potion and returned to her father’s bed, then with shaky hands, she tipped them both into his mouth. Gradually, his sporadic shallow breaths evened out and he exhaled slowly. Ori watched his every move, knot in her stomach growing tighter by the second. Finally, his fingers twitched at his side and his eyes drifted open.

Erandur exhaled again and with a slight shake of his head, tried to push himself into a seated position. But even with the stamina potion, he found himself unable to. The room came into focus slower than he liked. He glanced around before fixing his gaze on Ori, who had taken the opportunity to pull a chair from the main room to his bedside. Even in the dim candlelight, he could see the fear in her eyes.

“What happened?” she asked with a slight tremor to her voice. Erandur seemed to be at a loss as he finally pushed himself against the headboard.

“I don’t— I got back from Candlehearth hall, and just—” He let the sentence go as a rattling breath turned into a wet cough. Ori sucked in another breath, trying to calm herself down.

“You’re still helping the Altmer woman there? The one from a couple days ago?” she asked. Erandur nodded grimly and leaned on his elbows.

“Nothing’s working. Healing spells have almost no effect, and the potions wear off too quickly.” His voice wavered between normal and a thin, choked sound. As he finished speaking, he shuddered again and slipped back against the headboard. Ori pursed her lips and grabbed another healing potion from his nightstand. She paused after taking the empty bottle. Nurelion had mentioned someone asking him to come see her, but he refused and sent stronger potions instead; he often complained about Candlehearth Hall. What if– the thought nagged at Ori’s mind– what if Erandur had what the woman had?

“But then, some things can only heal with time.” her father offered, trying to pull her away from any potential fears. Ori nodded absently. He leaned back against the headboard and drew a shallow breath before adding, “You should go eat something.” Ori nodded again and stood up from the chair, then walked into the kitchen staring straight ahead.

She cut herself twice trying to slice bread and cheese, and eventually just decided to be content with that. Not that she felt much like cooking, anyways. Her mind had already started racing to figure out a solution. Maybe Nurelion– no, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed so long after closing time. She dropped her plate back to the counter and glanced into the back room.

The potions had already worn off and her father had fallen back into a fitful sleep. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his hair clung to the back of his neck. Ori turned back to the potion cabinet and scanned its contents. At this rate, their supply wouldn’t even last the night, let alone however long it took him to recover. With a frustrated huff, she slammed the cabinet door, causing Erandur to groan softly and slide further down into the bed. Late or not, Nurelion would know how to help and, damn it, he would help if she had to drag him from the White Phial herself.

\-----------

“How long has he been like this? Had these symptoms?” Nurelion asked, sifting through a box of potions he’d brought from the store. Ori stood on the other side of the Erandur’s bed. She glanced aside, walking herself through the past few days.

“He’s had the cough since yesterday, but other than that, he seemed fine this morning,” she murmured, shifting her gaze from her father to Nurelion.

“And he’s still taking care of that Altmer at Candlehearth?” Ori nodded. His hand hovered over a strong healing potion, then retreated to the side of the box. The alchemist’s jaw set, and he stared intently at the corner of the room, unwilling to meet her eyes.

“I’ve seen– had– this illness before,” he stated, voice thin and gravelly, “back on the Summerset Isles. Decades ago.” He shifted the box on his knee and removed the healing potion. “This is far more serious than I thought.” The brief moment of hope faded from Ori’s face. She wanted to ask him more, but Nurelion only shook his head and drained the potion into the priest’s mouth.

Erandur groaned softly and opened his eyes, giving a slight gasping start when he saw the alchemist. The sudden breath started another coughing fit. “I thought you ‘didn’t do house calls,’” he rasped, pushing himself back up to the headboard.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Nurelion said shortly, “The girl threatened to quit on me. You know I can’t find anyone else to work as cheap as she does.” Erandur glanced at the box of potions as Nurelion shifted through it, reading each label carefully. He wondered how many the alchemist had already used on him, and rather importantly, if they could even afford it.

“None of those happen to be cure disease potions, do they?” he ventured.

The Altmer picked up a long green bottle by the neck and swirled its contents, then popped the cork off it and poured a viscous black liquid in it from a small crimson bottle. He shook his head, handing the green bottle to the priest. Nurelion mixed a few more bottles of the stuff as Erandur drank the mixture.

“No such luck,” he said, reorganizing the box for what felt like the hundredth time before finally packing it up and placing a loose lid over it, “Not that it would do anything for you. And that last one was to wake you up. Now drink this– no, all of it– more effective against the fever. And just rest for now. Don’t do any work… or cook… or leave the apartment… _and don’t go back to_ _Candlehearth_.”

With that, Nurelion stood up and, heading for the door, gestured for Ori to follow him. Casting a final glance back to her father, she inched out from the corner of the room and closed the wooden door on the way out, then met the alchemist at the door. She moved to the coin purse on the table, but in a strange act of generosity, he waved it away.

“Save the coin,” he grumbled. “You’ll need it.” In a haphazard motion, Ori replaced the purse on the table and began to fiddle with the hedge of a wide sleeve, suspicion and worry building behind her eyes.

“As I was saying, I’m familiar with this disease. It’s common enough on the Summerset Isles. For a wood elf or a human, it’s not much to worry about,” he began, gruff demeanor cracking. “But for the rest of us, it _is_ fatal without treatment.” Ori gestured at the potion box and began to open her mouth.

“I’m not finished, girl,” he snapped, then paused and continued in a softer tone, “This disease, it– it alters itself against most potions. In fact, there’s only one known ingredient that can keep up with it. Santoreggia. Grown in Cyrodiil, worth ten times its weight in gold and then some. Before the war started, I kept a small supply to experiment on. Ran out and didn’t think anything of it. I never thought I’d actually need it.”

“So then we go get some!”

 “You can’t just go to the market and pick some up now!” Nurelion retorted sharply, “No one has any more. Been looking for weeks. There haven’t been any shipments to Skyrim in _months_ , and with the border crossings closed, there aren’t going to be any more shipments! There’s nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do, except make sure he’s comfortable for the next month or so. These things happen… it’s the cost of war.” His statement was punctuated by a brief fit of coughing.

Ori’s hands curled into fists and a harsh breath shuddered in her chest. Nothing anyone could do… That was it, then? Give up? Her pulse pounded in her ears.

“Hang the border crossings!” she cried abruptly, volume rising. “I’ll cross under a mountain if I have to!” She fell into a nearby chair then glared up at Nurelion.

“Then you’re absolutely crazy,” the alchemist responded, voice growing more virulent with every word. “Gods, girl… even if you get to the border… they see you, and they’ll shoot you without a second thought.”

Ori spread her fists against the arms of the chair and gripped them for support. Brown eyes met gold; she wouldn’t back down. She paused a moment before stating her final argument. “I refuse to stand by and allow my father to die because some Jarls can’t get along.”

Nurelion didn’t have an answer; he exhaled a wheezing breath and shook his head, finally breaking eye contact. Why couldn’t that stubborn girl see he was trying to help her? “Fine,” he muttered, shifting his gaze to the open door, “You go. Manage to get yourself back in one piece and I’ll make that potion for free… but you won’t. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With that he nodded curtly and descended the thin staircase.

“I’ll see you within the month, then,” Ori said to his back. The alchemist gave a slight shake of his head but said nothing as he exited the charity house.

Her chest clenched as she closed the apartment door, then walked back to the other room. Her steps felt heavier than they had in the afternoon, and she wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and wake up from this nightmare. She opened the door separating the rooms and walked back over to her bed. Erandur was still awake, and from the looks of it, writing something. He shifted the papers quickly as she entered the room but had left part of the first line uncovered. (What on Niirn was a Nightca—, she wondered.)

When she reached the small dresser at the end of her bed, her father sighed and continued writing. Silence hung heavy between them as she pulled off her outer dress, leaving her in her shift. Her knees buckled when she reached her bedside and she allowed herself to fall into a seated position. Erandur exhaled in another sticky-sounding sigh as he set down his pen. Clearly, he’d heard their conversation.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said with an air of finality.

Ori inhaled sharply, pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them as tightly as she could. For the love of— not him, too! Unshed tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

“Dad, I can’t let you die,” she whispered, voice wavering and threatening to crack.

“You heard Nurelion as well as I did,” Erandur responded. “He’s right.”

“But there’s a chance—”

“A small one,” he finished. “And the price of failure is too high. Your life isn’t worth it.”

He shook his head before leaning over to his nightstand and blowing out the candle. He turned one more time to Ori, red eyes illuminated by the moonlight that streamed in through a crack in the shutters. He smiled sadly.

“Rest for now, my daughter,” he said, “We don’t have to decide anything tonight.”

Ori leaned back against her headboard, eyes closed, head tilted to the ceiling and listened as Erandur’s breathing evened out and melded with the sound of the draft blowing softly through the window. He’d lied to himself, when he said nothing was decided. His fears and reasons were known, but Ori had already made her choice.

As quietly as she could, Ori slipped out of bed and silently opened her dresser, careful not to kick over the vielle leaning against her nightstand, then put her outer dress back on. She had no armor, but an old hand-me-down leather bodice would do something for protection. For weaponry, a steel dagger and her own flame spells would suffice. She tiptoed in her worn leather boots to the kitchen table, where she counted out her life savings– meant for tuition for the bard’s college; hopefully a bag of the Santoreggia wouldn’t cost more than that. She held a small flame for light and set to her final task before leaving. She scrawled two notes: first, a request of Brunwulf Free-Winter, and second, an apology to her father. She couldn’t allow her one chance of saving him to pass.


	2. Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions and a Near Miss

_Where am I?_ The question burned at the front of Ori’s mind as she squeezed her eyes shut then blinked quickly. The haze of unconsciousness faded as she took in her surroundings. A rough-hewn cart driven by a hunched-over Imperial soldier rumbled beneath her as they travelled down the side of a mountain. A similar cart jam-packed with Stormcloak soldiers led the party. She turned her head quickly to the outside of the cart, only to be stopped by a sharp pain at the back of her head. Oh, right. Her last few memories came back to her in pieces, but she distinctly remembered feeling something slam into that spot. Ori moved to nurse her now-throbbing headache and discovered her hands had been bound. She turned back to her seat in the cart and stared at the ground.

“Hey, you,” she heard a sudden voice, “You’re finally awake.” She looked up– a bit too quickly– to look at the person addressing her. Another Stormcloak. Blue eyes met brown; the soldier looked her up and down before continuing. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there.” At this, the alleged thief started and turned to the soldier.

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” he spat, “Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!”

The thief turned to Ori, grasping for allies in his desperate situation. “You there– you and me– we shouldn’t be here! It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” She glanced askance at the thief; Divines, the company this trip forced her into. The blonde soldier spoke up before she could.

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now.”

“Shut up back there!” the driver called irritably. Her companions rolled their eyes and the soldier turned back to her, clearly not ready to take any orders from the Imperial.

“Anyways, name’s Ralof. You?” the soldier addressed her again, as if he’d just met her in a tavern. She shifted to a more comfortable position. “Ori,” she responded hesitantly.

The horse thief snorted. “And I’m Lokir. Pleased to meet you. Maybe we should all just go get a nice pint somewhere.” He nodded his head across cart, to someone Ori hadn’t noticed before. “And what’s wrong with him, huh?” She turned slowly to face the fourth member of their cart and her heart stopped.

“Watch your tongue,” Ralof hissed, “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!” The Jarl of Windhelm, leader of the rebellion. The jarl’s harsh gaze turned from Lokir to the bound citizen of his city; if he recognized her, even in passing, he didn’t show it.

“Ulfric?” Lokir cried, “If they’ve captured you… oh gods, where are they taking us?” Ralof sighed and turned his eyes to the road. For a moment he didn’t answer. The rumbling cart overtook their silence in his pause.

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No! This can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!” Lokir cried again, voice rising to a panic. His breathing became loud and ragged, seeming to take all of his energy. Ralof glanced over to Ori, then to Ulfric before turning back to the panicking thief.

“Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?” he asked. The thief in question exhaled a shuddering breath. “Why do you care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” he responded neutrally. Lokir sunk into his seat and rubbed his face with bound hands.

“Rorikstead. I’m from Rorikstead.”

And the cart rumbled on in silence. Ori glanced between the soldier and the thief. Their odds didn’t look good. The soldier had turned back to the road, watching the cart ahead of them and the thief’s breathing had become ragged again as he weighed his admittedly faint options aloud. She wondered what her father might say to her now.

“Don’t give up yet,” she said reassuringly to Lokir. “You have a point. They don’t execute people for stealing a horse… and probably not for crossing the border, either.” Lokir out another breath, but otherwise looked calmer. Ralof leaned back against the cart and eyed her curiously. “So, then, what brings a wood elf to Skyrim?” he asked. An unamused smile tugged at a corner of Ori’s mouth and she glanced at the Imperial’s back.

“Actually, I’m from Windhelm. And I _was_ trying to get back there from Cyrodiil… we needed Santoreggia. I have to get it—” she suddenly noticed she wasn’t in her old dress, but in some rags the Imperials probably had stored in the cart. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth went dry as she realized they had taken not only her clothes, but the bag of the ingredient with them. Without that… Ori drew her knees to her chest under her arms and buried her face into her knees. She released a choked sob into the rough fabric and sat there, mind blurred with worry. “Someone’s sick, then. Family?” she heard Ralof ask quietly. She nodded without bringing her head up. The soldier murmured something inaudible; after that, the group fell back into silence. The only sounds left were the rumbling of the carts and a raven shrieking in the distance.

After a few miles of riding, the soldier riding behind the cart spurred his horse ahead suddenly and passed the group. Ori and her companions followed him with their eyes as he disappeared behind a hill.

As the carts passed the hilltop and began their descent, Ori noticed the gates of a small town. The soldier returned, addressing the officer at the head of the party.

“General Tullius, sir!” he called, “The headsman is waiting.” The general nodded curtly and responded in a similarly measured tone. “Good. Let’s get this over with.” The horses huffed when the driver slowed the cart’s speed to a more comfortable walking pace as group of prisoners and soldiers rumbled through the town gates. General Tullius pulled his horse aside to speak with a group of dark-hooded Altmer. Ralof barked a humorless laugh.

“Look at him! General Tullius, the Military Governor! And it looks like the Thalmor are with him.” He gave his head a sharp shake. “Damn elves! I bet they had something to do with this.” Ori didn’t take his eyes off the group of Altmer. She’d never seen the Thalmor but had heard of their deeds during the Great War and their annexation of Valenwood.

It soon became clear the soldiers had no intention of sparing Ori or Lokir. Guilt by association, she supposed, even if said association was a two-hour cart ride. The horse theif began to panic again. “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh!” he prayed desperately. “Divines, please help me!” Ori looked around the town from the cart. Last time she’d passed this town, it’d been night, and she refused to stop.

“This is Helgen. My hometown’s pretty close to here,” Ralof offered, noticing her silent studying. He paused for a moment. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here… I wonder if Velod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.” The corners of Ori’s mouth quirked into a small smile. She glanced over her shoulder, where she could see a small boy hanging off a porch. A man walked up behind him, glaring at the cart.

“Who are they, papa? Where are they going?” the boy asked suddenly. The man broke his gaze and turned to his son. “You need to go inside, little cub.” The boy pouted. “Why?” he asked. “I wanna watch the soldiers.”

“Inside the house, now,” the man ordered.

The child mumbled something in acknowledgement and trudged inside the house. A few paces past the house, and the drivers reined the horses in to a stop. A captain who’d ridden at the head of the small caravan with the general shouted an order to unload the cart. Ralof sighed and stared at his boots as Lokir’s head whipped around frantically.

“Why are we stopping?” he asked, unable to hide his panic.

“Why do you think?” Ralof snapped back. “End of the line.” He stood up, then waited for Ulfric, Lokir, and Ori to do the same. “Let’s go. We shouldn’t keep the gods waiting.”

Lokir struggled as a soldier grabbed him and pulled him roughly down to the ground. “No, wait!” he cried. “We’re not rebels!”

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Ralof snapped again, but Lokir didn’t calm down.

“You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you,” the thief cried to Ralof, then to the captain, “This is a mistake!” The captain rolled her eyes and heaved an exasperated sigh.

“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time!” They began listing the prisoners, from Jarl Ulfric to Lokir. As Ori waited for room to step out of the cart, the horse thief’s panic became unbearable.

“No, I’m not a rebel!” he cried one final time. “You can’t do this! You’re not going to kill me!”

With that, he took off past the captain. She only paused a moment before ordering him shot down. _Exactly as Nurelion said_ , Ori thought, unable to take her eyes off her former companion. The captain turned back to the group of prisoners and Ori stepped out of the cart.

“Anyone else feel like running?” she growled. Business continued as if Lokir’s outburst never happened.

“Wait,” the soldier with the list said, as if noticing Ori for the first time. “You there… step forward. Who are you?” Ori took a small step towards the soldier. “Oriinthel,” she managed to stammer out.

“Not many wood elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim,” he noted before turning to his officer. Ori bit her tongue. “Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.” The captain turned sharply towards the block.

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.” The Imperial soldier stopped short for a moment, expression unreadable, before nodding Ori to the rest of the group.

A weight dropped in her stomach and her mind went blank as she blindly stumbled behind Ralof. Maybe the Imperial soldier whispered an apology to her back, maybe she imagined it. A wave of numbness washed through her and settled with the weight in her stomach as the group reached the block. The next few moments passed Ori in a haze. The general gave one final speech to the Jarl, and to the rebellion; an animal roared in the distance; a priestess of Arkay began last rights.

“For the love of Talos,” a Stormcloak snapped, suddenly bringing Ori back to reality. “Shut up and let’s get this over with!” The priestess stopped, taken aback. Still, she nodded, and backed away. The soldier marched toward the block. “Come on, I haven’t got all day!” He kneeled at the block and addressed the captain directly. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?”

The captain set her jaw and walked behind the soldier, and stepped on his back to force him to his knees. The sun glinted off the headsman’s raised axe. The Stormcloak stared forward with a steeled gaze. The axe fell with a dull thud and the soldier’s body went limp. As a volley of insults began amongst the crowd and the soldiers, a couple of Imperials dragged the soldier away from the block.

“The Wood Elf goes next!”

Ori’s mouth went dry. She took a trudging step. Another. One more. Just move. _Breathe while you can,_ she whispered to herself. Her eyes remained downcast as she reached the block; her throat closed when she met the dead soldier’s unblinking gaze. Ori squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on the sounds around her. The same animal roared, closer than the last time. She knelt to the ground. Time slowed around her. She waited for the headsman’s final blow.

It never came.

The ground rumbled before the black-clad Nord could even raise his axe. The weapon fell from his grip and ran itself into the ground as he and several others lost their balance. Ori reared back from the block and turned to the source of the shaking.

It had to be something from a nightmare. The great black beast dug its claws into the side of a stone building as it landed. It did not hesitate to engulf the nearest group of people in its flaming breath. As the buildings around it crumbled and people ran and screamed, it swiveled its head, watching with a sickly human satisfaction. Its eyes burned like red hot coals as, for a moment, it locked its gaze with Ori’s. She scrambled to her feet. Time seemed to slow around her as it took a second to study her, then passed her over.

“We have to move! Follow me!” she heard Ralof shout as he pushed her towards a stone tower. Ash billowed in the air behind him and burned her lungs. Hands still bound, she followed him towards the tower.

The beast still roared outside, but for the moment they could breathe. “That’s– that’s a dragon,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else in the tower.

“I thought they were legends,” Ralof breathed, glancing out the doorframe before looking around the tower for something to cut the ropes around his wrists with, but to no avail. Jarl Ulfric, who’d used the headsman’s axe to cut his binds, ripped off the gag over his mouth.

“Legends don’t burn down villages.”

Ori nodded blankly before looking around; they had to escape. Maybe out the roof— she began creeping up the stairs. Debris blocked their last exit. She cursed to herself and looked back down the stairs. There had to be another way…

The entire building shook as something landed on its side. Ori jumped back towards the roof. Stone crumbled as the great beast’s claws tore through the stone wall and breathed a pillar of flames into the building. Debris crashed down around Ori, blocking the stairs and filling the air with ash and dust. Satisfied with its damage, the dragon climbed down from the building and continued its path of destruction.

Ash burned Ori’s eyes and her pulse pounded in her ears as her gaze swiveled from the blocked staircase to the floor of the tower: a nearly three-story drop.

“It’s too high a jump!” Ralof called. He and the Jarl could escape through the door. She couldn’t. He coughed as he breathed in the dust. “Try jumping into the inn!”

Ori whipped around. From the hole in the wall she could see a clear spot to jump. Looked survivable. Ori squeezed her eyes shut and balled her hands into fists. Deep breath. Jump.

She landed on the second floor of the inn with a half-roll, half-collapse. The dragon still roared outside, the fire from its jaws burning everything in sight. Ori pulled herself off the floor and scrambled down the stairs and out of the inn.

A small group of survivors gathered near a burned building, ready to escape out a hole in the town wall. The soldier who’d asked her name deposited a small boy with the group before heading back into the burning courtyard. She ran to him.

“Miss Wood Elf!” he said, relieved. “You’re still alive! Follow me to the Keep. We might find more survivors there.” Ori glanced back to where the group escaped and nodded, running with him to the last intact building.

They both heaved a long sigh once inside the building. The soldier leaned against the door while Ori supported herself on a column.

“Name’s Hadvar. You’re… Ori, right?” he asked, finally breaking the silence. He pulled himself away from the door and drew a knife from his belt. “Here, let me cut those binds,” he said. Ori rubbed her raw wrists as soon as the heavy ropes fell away. She glanced around the keep, but didn’t see any other survivors.

Hadvar walked over to a chest at the end of a bed and pulled out some lightweight armor. He handed it back to her before pulling out a helmet for himself. “I guess you’ll want something to wear besides those rags,” he offered. Ori swallowed and nodded, taking the old armor.

“Where’s my stuff?” she asked to the soldier’s turned back as she discarded the rags, pulled the undershirt over her head, then put on the armor. “Your clothes were still in the wagon,” he responded. “Your knife is probably in the prison with the other confiscated weapons.” Ori paled. Weapon in one place, clothes in another, and Santoreggia? She pulled on the breeches quickly and walked around Hadvar, turning her head up to meet his gaze.

“There was a small bag, too. It had herbs in it,” she added urgently. “What happened to the bag?” Hadvar’s sucked in a breath and reached into a pocket. “This bag?” he asked. “It seemed important, so I was going to take it to General Tullius later, but—” he trailed off and gestured to the keep door.

She took the bag with her first genuine smile in nearly two weeks, placing it in her own pocket. The soldier gave her a short nod, then turned to a nearby weapon rack; he brought his hand to his mouth as he scanned the rack’s slim pickings. “You’ll need a weapon…”

“What about my dagger?” Ori asked, placing her hands on her hips. The corners of Hadvar’s mouth quirked up and he raised his eyebrows a bit.

“You can have it back, but I’m not sure it’ll do you much good against a Stormcloak.”

“It’s a perfectly fine dagger!” Ori defended her weapon, even if she’d never intended to use it.

“More of a letter opener, really. Here,” he said, handing her a short sword. “Give it a few swings.” The heavy iron felt different in her hand than her steel knife. “Think you can handle it?” he asked, a lighter note coming back to his voice. She gave a small grin and nodded.

“Then let’s go,” he said resolutely. The two turned to an old rarely-used door and began their escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Two weeks! Thanks for your patience, and hopefully I'll get chapter 2 up faster!


	3. A Warm Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walk to Riverwood, Stones, Meet the Blacksmith, Sending Ralof on his Way, and a Love Triangle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give a huge thank you to everyone who's reading this!!

The sun outside the escape tunnel was deceptively bright. Had they not just lived it, Hadvar and Ori wouldn’t have believed a dragon decimated a town. As they exited the thin tunnel, Ori reached up and stretched until she felt a satisfying pop in her back. Hadvar sheathed his sword and glanced around.

He then turned to Ori and with a slightly embarrassed grimace, rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks for getting those frostbite spiders back there,” he said.

“Well, you did cut me loose,” she trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“But if you hadn’t seen them first– what I’m trying to say– well, thanks. You didn’t have to stick around, especially after… It was just– it was good to have a friend back there.” The corners of Ori’s mouth turned up in a hesitant smile.

“Does that mean I’m pardoned, then?” she asked, humor creeping back into her voice. Hadvar opened his mouth to reply when they heard a great rush of wind behind them. Instinctively, the soldier ducked behind the nearest rock. Ori followed him and together they watched the large black dragon’s wings beat furiously and lift him into the sky as he flew away from Helgen.

Hadvar shook his head, previous good mood dampening. He and Ori stood, eyes following the dragon until he disappeared behind the horizon. “We need to warn someone about that dragon,” he muttered. Ori stepped up to his side and glanced at him. “But where?” she asked.

“Nearest town’s Riverwood,” he replied, heading down the dirt path to the road. _Riverwood. Ralof’s town_ , it registered in the back of the bosmer’s mind as she followed her newfound friend away from the smoldering town.

As the two walked the stone road, Ori took the opportunity to take in the world around her. She held back a slight chuckle as a fox locked its gaze with hers and cocked its head, seemingly wondering if she was a threat or not. She smiled lightly at it, and it startled and ran back into the forest.

She switched her attention back to Hadvar’s friendly, if near constant chatter. About the Legion, something about a haunted barrow she shouldn’t go near, and an invitation to stay with his uncle. She nodded in agreement, but otherwise didn’t address the subjects. He asked her about her life in a large city, and she gladly told him all she could.

It reached late afternoon: the sun turned a blazing orange as it dipped behind the mountains and strips of pinks, purples, and oranges painted the sky and met dusk’s early stars. They rounded a bend in the road to find three standing stones, arranged in an arc on a stone foundation. Ori broke from the path and stepped up tentatively to them as Hadvar slowed and stopped right behind her. The stones buzzed with energy, calling to her in a soft humming voice, drawing her closer. They seemed familiar, yet she couldn’t place exactly what they were.

“Guardian stones,” Hadvar explained when he saw her curious gaze. “There’re more of them around Skyrim. I guess there aren’t many near the cities… they’re supposed to guide you, if you’ve accepted their sign.” She approached each stone, and read each stone’s identifying rune: Thief, Mage, and Warrior. Ori turned slightly to face him. “And have you accepted a stone’s sign?” she asked.

He nodded, gesturing at the Warrior stone. She smiled lightly, but didn’t activate it. It hummed, but not to her. She turned to the second stone, the Mage stone. Its energy buzzed brightly; that stone _did_ call to her. She activated it and a pillar of blue light shot into the sky. The energy that once buzzed around the stone rushed around her. She turned to her friend and he smiled noncommittally at her. “Not what I would’ve chosen, but to each their own.” Ori shrugged and rejoined him at the road, and they continued on their way.

It didn’t take long for them to reach Riverwood; a small sliver of sun still peeked over the horizon. Ori heaved a sigh of relief as they passed under the town gate. A couple of town guards glanced at them, but otherwise said nothing. A young man argued with his mother, and a boy ran past him, chasing his dog. This town, at least, was untouched.

Hadvar’s posture sagged, exhaustion becoming apparent, as he reached a blacksmith’s shop. The two walked towards the forge, where a blond Nord hammered at a chestplate.

“Uncle Alvor!” Hadvar called to get his uncle’s attention. “Hello!” The blacksmith set the hammer down on an anvil and glanced up. "Hadvar? What are you doing here?” he asked, working his way around the forge to meet his nephew. “Are you on leave from—” He took in Hadvar’s haggard appearance. “Shor's bones, what happened to you, boy? Are you in some kind of trouble?” Hadvar placed a soot-covered hand on Alvor’s arm and hushed him quietly. He glanced over to the next house over, to make sure the woman on the porch hadn’t started listening to them.

“Uncle, please. Keep your voice down. I'm fine. But we should go inside to talk.” Hadvar passed his uncle towards the door. Alvor whipped his head around to stare after him. “What's going on?” he demanded. He turned back to an equally sooty Ori. “And who's this?” Hadvar paused at the half-open door and smiled at her.

“Ori. She’s a friend… Saved my life, in fact. Come on, I'll explain everything but we need to go inside.”

Alvor sighed and shook his head, guiding his guests inside. “Okay, okay. Come on, then. Sigrid will get you something to eat, and you can tell me ‘bout it.” Ori nodded and followed Hadvar inside.

“Sigrid! We have company!” the blacksmith called. He then turned to his guests and gestured for them to sit at the table. Ori noticed a little girl swinging her legs on the side of a bed. As they took their seats, a woman rushed up the stairs from the cellar. She paused at the top of the stares and shot Hadvar a concerned glance.

“Hadvar! We've been so worried about you! Come, you two must be hungry.” She turned towards the cooking pot, already bubbling on the fire. “I'll get you something to eat.”

Alvor’s eyes followed his wife for a moment before turning back to Hadvar. He cleared his throat, poured Ori a tankard of wine and handed it to her. He grabbed a second tankard for Hadvar and spoke. “Now then, boy, what's the big mystery? What are you doing here looking like you lost an argument with a cave bear?” Hadvar shook his head slowly and drew a deep breath and Alvor began pouring the wine.

“I don't know where to start,” he confessed. “You know I was assigned to General Tullius's guard… we were stopped in Helgen when we were attacked by a– a dragon.” His voice finished on an airy tone, as if his mind still hadn’t processed it. Alvor paused his pouring and set the wine bottle down. He shot Hadvar a suspicious glance.

“A dragon?” he released an unamused chuckle. “That's ridiculous. You aren't drunk, are you boy?” Hadvar shook his head and Sigrid lightly smacked her husband’s shoulder. “Let him tell his story,” she said. Hadvar shifted, and Ori remained silent, staring into her tankard as he spoke.

“Not much more to tell. The dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion. I don't know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt I'd have made it out if not for Ori here. I need to get back to Solitude and let them know what's happened. I thought you could help us out. Food… supplies… maybe a place to stay.” Alvor nodded and handed Hadvar the tankard, and emptied what was left of the bottle into his own.

“Of course,” he said, then turned to Ori and addressed her. “Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine. I'd be glad to help however I can.” Ori nodded. “Thank you,” she responded quietly. Hadvar shot her a helpful glance and nodded. Alvor continued: “But I need your help— We need your help… the Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless...You need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf to send whatever soldiers he can. If you do this for me, I'll be in your debt.”

Ori gulped at the blacksmith’s request. She saw the sense in it, of course, but how much longer would that take? Even Helgen and the rest of the day… Ori hoped she hadn’t wasted too much time. She began to try to explain her situation when Hadvar stepped in.

“Uncle, I would be happy for her to stay the night, but she’s got to move quickly, I don’t think she can—” Sigrid stepped over to Ori, carrying a clean dress and some soap and interrupted Hadvar.

“We didn’t mean you had to, of course,” she offered. “Just consider it.”

Sigrid placed the supplies in front of Ori and added, “Here, thought you’d want to clean up a little. All we’ve got is the river, but at this time of night, it’s private enough.” Ori took the clothes and stood, thanking Sigrid and Alvor. As she walked through the door, she heard the little girl address Hadvar.

“Did you really see a dragon? What did it look like? Did it have big teeth?” she rattled off the questions before he could answer them. As Ori closed the door, she heard Sigrid cluck her tongue. “Hush, child,” she reprimanded. Don't pester your cousin.” Ori smiled a little and made her way to the river.

She kneeled at the riverbank and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. She changed her armor for a dress, but without the privacy of a washroom, cleaning the soot and dirt off her face would have to do. She scrubbed quickly, hoping to wash away the day’s memories. Quickly gathering up the borrowed soap and towel, Ori stood from the riverbank and walked back towards the blacksmith’s house.

She saw a familiar blond head moving silently amongst the trees near the sawmill. Ori pulled herself up and ran as quietly as she could to meet him. Though his sword remained sheathed, his gaze became a bit wary when he noticed her. She slowed her pace and held her hands up slightly.

“You escaped,” he breathed, relaxing when he recognized her. Ori nodded slightly.

“I thought you’d go back to Windhelm?” she asked. The Stormcloak nodded. “That’s right. Just heading out now.” Ori nodded once again, reaching into her pocket for the Santoreggia.

“I know this is a big favor to ask,” she began, trying not to speak above the same harsh whisper as him. “But I need you to take this to the charity house. Someone will pay you for your trouble. Alvor asked me to tell Jarl Balgruuf about the dragon and how there could be another attack here, and with Helgen and the capture… my dad’s running out of time…” her pitch raised as she spoke, nearly cracking at the last phrase. Ralof smiled at her.

“We nearly died together. Twice,” he said, taking the small bag from her. “I think I can manage a favor like this.” He tucked the pouch into his pocket. “Don’t worry. I’ll get there in time.” Ori breathed a sigh of relief. She felt a weight lifted off her chest

“Thank you,” she whispered. “And good luck.” Ralof retreated back towards the trees.

“And to you as well,” he replied before turning away from the town and heading off into the night. Once he was out of sight, Ori turned back towards the blacksmith’s house. She would head to Whiterun in the morning.

\---------------

Dawn found Ori curled up in a bedroll in front of Alvor’s fire. From her spot in the middle of the small house she could hear the family bustling about their daily tasks; Alvor already worked his forge, with Hadvar and Dorthe helping as best they could. Sigrid, on the other hand, had set to mending both Hadvar’s torn clothes. Ori stood up, rolled up her bedding, and thanked Sigrid before leaving the house.

Her goodbyes to Hadvar were brief. She was afraid that the longer she stayed around him and the safety of his uncle’s house, the less she would want to leave. And of course, she wanted to explore a bit before heading to Whiterun.

As she glanced down the main road of the town, she noticed the same young man from the day before: the one arguing with his mother. His forlorn expression as he stood on his porch was obvious even from her distance. Ori walked over to the young man.

“’Morning,” she greeted as she approached. He snapped his head up, then sighed and returned to his brooding.

“’Morning,” he said. “You’re new in town, right? Saw you come in last night.” Ori nodded.

“Yeah,” she said, before sticking out her hand. “Ori.” The young man took her hand and shook it. “Sven,” he replied after dropping her hand. “Bard and woodcutter extraordinaire.”

Ori followed his eyes to a two-story building, where his gaze remained fixed on the door. She shook off her slight discomfort before asking, “What seems to be the trouble?” Sven sighed and turned his head back towards the ground.

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing you can help with.” She nodded and had almost walked off his porch when he suddenly whipped his head back to her.

“Wait– maybe you can– You’re a woman,” Sven stated, as if he somehow hadn’t noticed before. She nodded slowly, eyebrow arched. A grin grew on the young man’s face. “She’ll trust you…” _Was he aware he was thinking out loud?_ Ori wondered. He quickly pulled a small paper out of his vest pocket. “I need you to do something for me,” he said, fiddling with the corner of the letter. “Give this to Camilla Valerius. Tell her it’s from Faendal.” His grin grew wider. “She’ll never want to see that dumb elf again.” Ori swallowed and began unfolding the letter.

“And why do you want that?” she asked, barely able to hide the suspicion in her voice. Sven’s expression grew unreadable. He quickly held out a hand to keep her from opening it.

“I’ve seen ‘im leaving her house every day,” he said. “But I intend to marry her.” Ori’s eyebrows furrowed. Nothing about this plan sounded right. She ran her fingers along the crease of the letter and tucked it into her dress pocket. Sven’s grin returned, wider than she thought possible. “I’ll be in the tavern. Meet me once you’ve given her the letter!”

With that he strode off his porch briskly and headed towards the tavern. Jaw set, Ori marched off the porch and towards the Trader’s building; why had she involved herself in something so petty? She reached into her pocket and gripped the letter tightly. Of course she wouldn’t lie like to this Camilla! She huffed as she reached the door and swung it open, perhaps a bit more aggressively than she should have.

Inside, a bosmer leaned rather stiffly against the merchant’s counter, and an Imperial woman sat in a chair next to a fire, still giggling at something the Bosmer had just said. The pair broke off their conversation and, surprised by the interruption, turned to Ori as she marched inside.

“Good morning,” the Imperial said, “What can I do for you?”  Ori pulled the letter out of her pocket and opened it, but didn’t read it. She held it out to the Imperial.

“You’re Camilla, right?” she asked. The raven-haired woman nodded and took the letter. “Sven gave this to me,” Ori continued. “He wanted me to say it was from Faendal.” The bosmer turned from Ori to the letter with a start, then walked over to stand behind Camilla and read it for himself. He became more incensed the further he read. Once they were both finished, Camilla crumpled up the letter and threw it on the table. She sighed and ran a hand through her loose hair.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, a hint of sadness and disappointment rising in her voice. Ori supposed she’d once considered Sven a friend. But after this…

“I’d like to thank you, as well,” Faendal added. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just ask.” A small smile came to Ori’s face and she nodded.

“Actually,” she began, shifting a small knapsack Hadvar gave her, “There is something… I’m supposed to go to Whiterun to tell the Jarl about the dragon attack, but I don’t know how to get there.” Faendal glanced at Camilla, who smiled at him and gave a silent laugh.

“Of course,” he stammered. “It doesn’t take long at all to get there.” Ori shifted the knapsack again and bit back her own grin. Perhaps he hadn’t expected such a large favor so soon. “Do you need to pack anything, then?” she asked. The bosmer started and glanced around.

“No,” he replied quickly, “Ready when you are.” He turned to Camilla and grinned sheepishly. She returned it with an amused eyeroll. “Just come back in one piece,” she told him, sending him out the door with a light push. As the two left town, she noticed the sign for the inn; remembering Sven’s request, she pulled her knapsack tighter to her and walked a little faster. At any rate, Whiterun awaited, whether it knew it or not.


	4. The Jarl of Whiterun Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragonsreach, a Message, and an Assignment from Farengar

Dragonsreach cut an imposing figure against the boreal plains, gables and buttresses reaching to the sky like an ancient barrow. From the bottom of a grand stone staircase, Ori gaped up at the massive palace: the top of those stairs, through the heavy pergola, was her destination. With a glance back at Faendal, she sucked in a breath and started up the steps. After all, she reasoned with herself, after facing a dragon, this Jarl could say nothing to surprise her.

The guards glanced her up and down and hesitated before stepping aside, and she tried to pay no mind to their obvious stares as she pushed open the great doors of the main hall and walked inside.

“What do you mean, ‘I can’t see him’?” Ori asked indignantly, planting her left foot in the ground. The leather-clad dunmer woman regarded her with a cold glare. She’d stopped her and Faendal in front of a large firepit, where she could just make out the Jarl’s form, in deep discussion with another Nord and an Imperial, over the dancing flames.

“I’m Jarl Balgruuf’s housecarl,” she responded. “I can’t allow just anyone to meet with him. Especially unannounced.”  Ori huffed, then decided to repeat herself, a bit louder, so maybe she could catch the Jarl’s attention.

“I was sent here from Riverwood by Alvor to speak to the Jarl,” she called. “Specifically, directly, and only.” Irileth narrowed her eyes and had already begun backing Ori and Faendal towards the door, when the Jarl stood from his throne and addressed the arguing elves.

“Well,” he said, staring directly at Ori. “I trust you have something vitally important to tell me.” He angled his head a bit towards the other two men. “Important enough to interrupt me in the middle of council?” Ori nodded.

“A dragon attacked Helgen,” she said, returning to her normal volume. “Burned it to the ground. Alvor is afraid Riverwood is next.” Balgruuf backed up into his throne and sank into it.

“A dragon. By the nine,” he trailed off in disbelief, then turned a sharp gaze to Ori. “You’re sure?” She nodded. “I was there when it happened. It was– Riverwood needs guards,” she stated as resolutely as she could. Ori’s chest felt heavy and the tips of her fingers began to tremble as her mind flashed briefly back to the attack and she tried to push away that falling sensation and the heat and the black, acidic smoke of the dragon fire.

The Jarl must have noticed. He cleared his throat, then addressed her again. “Well done,” he said, “You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it.” He tapped the arm of his throne as he looked over the two bosmer in front of him.

“Before you go: there is another thing you could do for me,” he began. “My court mage could use your help. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... rumors of dragons.”

Ori opened her mouth to object and her mind raced a mile a minute. Another quest? Delivering a message was one thing, but helping a court mage with the dragon problem? Who knew how long that could take. “I really have to get home, though,” she protested. What of her dad? She had to let him know she was alive, and needed to know he was, too. And she needed to return to her job; she’d spent most of her savings on the trip.

“You would be well paid, of course,” Balgruuf added. “Say… five thousand septims?” Ori stopped. That much. She swallowed hard. Five times her savings. She could afford to quit the White Phial for a while longer… help her father at the charity house… even afford the bard’s college…

“I’ll do it,” she said with a nod. The Jarl gave a nod and stood up. “Good. Follow me. I’ll introduce you.” Ori followed him through a massive doorway and into a brightly-lit and airy room, where a blue-robed Nord hunched over an ancient, decaying book, totally engrossed in his reading. The Jarl stepped up to the table and looked down at the mage.

“Faren—” the mage didn’t look up. Balgruuf sighed and tapped the table. “Farengar.” The other nord’s head snapped up, as if he were awakened suddenly. “Yes, sir?” he asked shortly. The Jarl nodded towards the bosmer.

“This is Ori. I think she can help you with your problem.” The mage grumbled to himself about solving the problem himself, but didn’t argue aloud. Balgruuf turned back to Ori as he exited the room.

“Farengar can fill you in on what he wants, then you’re free to leave,” Balgruuf said, then added, “Oh, and Irileth? Get her some new armor before she leaves.” Ori turned her attention back to the mage, who turned in his place and leaned against the large desk.

“Hm,” Farengar mumbled more to himself than to her and glanced over her. He seemed unimpressed. “You aren’t like the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way. Maybe he wants me to try a new direction?” The corners of Ori’s mouth tightened, and she rocked back on her heels, unsure of how to respond. He shrugged and nodded. “Well, I’ll try it. I could use someone to fetch something for me.” He paused, then held up a finger to qualify his request. “Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

Tilting her head slightly, Ori nodded. “Right,” she said slowly. “And what does this have to do with dragons— more specifically, my experience in running from them?” Farengar quirked an eyebrow and his face lit up in a grin. “Ah, so you do have a brain in your head!” Ori’s face fell into a hard stare, but if the mage noticed it he paid it no mind. “You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies… rumors… Impossibilities! One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible.” Farengar took a dramatic pause, letting his words sink in. “But I began to search for information about dragons: where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”

The bosmer glanced at each other and Faendal stepped forward and asked, “So what do you need us to do? Sounds like you’ve got it just about figured out.” Farengar exhaled a frustrated breath and continued in an overly patient tone. “Ah, but I don't do _fetching_ , but I, um, _learned of_ a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow– a ‘Dragonstone,’ said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. What you need to do, my bosmer friends, is go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet– no doubt interred in the main chamber– and bring it to me. Simplicity itself.” He punctuated his instructions with a satisfied nod as he folded his arms.

“And– and there’s not going to be a dragon in there?” Ori asked. Farengar stared at her for half a second before scoffing. “How would I know? I’ve never been there… but if there is, would you please direct it here? I would very much like to see it for myself.”

“Well,” Ori stated flatly, “I guess we’d better get going, then… need to talk to Irileth about some armor.” She turned without another word to Farengar. Never before had she met a more unlikeable mage, and never did she wish to again. The sooner she could finish this job and be done with dragons, the better.

\----------

As soon as the heavy keep doors closed behind them, Faendal placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Look,” he said, “I know we’ve spent most of our free time with archery and getting impossible missions from Jarls, but if you need to talk about it—" Ori shook her head sharply, accidently shaking his hand off her shoulder.

“I don’t. I’ve been trying to forget it since it happened.” She folded her arms and stared down to the new leather boots that matched the rest of her armor as she kept walking. Falling behind a couple paces, Faendal pulled his hand back to his side and shook his head. How to get this kid out of whatever mood that mage put her into?

“Well, my offer stands,” he said. Ori nodded noncommittally ahead of him, only just looking up. Faendal jogged a couple paces ahead and turned around to face her. “And, hey, you’ve got five thousand Septims practically in the pocket, a new set of armor, and half of whatever we find in that barrow.” The younger mer met his gaze and cracked the first real smile he’d seen on her in hours. “And you don’t want any of that five thousand?” She asked, one eyebrow raised. Faendal stepped sideways and walked next to her. “I wouldn’t be opposed to splitting it,” he replied with a shrug. “Now come on, we’ve got a haunted barrow to raid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, it's been a while! Thanks for sticking with me. My hard drive died October 1st and between trying several ways to fix the laptop and midterms, I just got the file back on Sunday, so... Short Chapter!


	5. Over Hill and Under Barrow

“So this is that haunted barrow Hadvar warned me about,” Ori mused as she and Faendal started up the steps. She released a shaky laugh. “It’s… bigger than I imagined.” The other bosmer glanced sideways at her, then up the steps, bow already drawn. “Yeah,” he said. “More room for trouble. Just watch yourself.” Ori sighed and nodded, taking her own bow in her hand.

Crouching low, the two crept up the stone stairs; Ori’s bow shook slightly as her hand slipped against the worn leather grip. A group of bandit’s voices rose over the whipping wind, and she desperately hoped she’d find them before they noticed her. Faendal tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to a tall stone ledge, where a scout stared directly over them into the horizon. With his concentration entirely on the scout, he drew an arrow back and let it fly, hitting the scout in the heart. The man fell from the ledge with a scream and landed with a sharp crack at the base of the barrow. Ori stared at the dead man in a haze as the shouts of the other bandits echoed from the barrow entrance.

The bandit’s death alerted the others. They found her and Faendal with weapons drawn, though she shot blindly. She felt overwhelmed as she dodged arrows and faced the bandit’s taunts. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. As arrows sailed back, another bandit fell, then another, until only she and Faendal were left standing.

Ori swallowed hard and her breath felt ragged. The wind rose to a howling gale and she wished she could forget the sounds of the bandits’– the people’s– voices. Only as she glanced around the bloodied snow did she notice a cold pin-prick in her shoulder…

“You need a healing potion?” Faendal asked, eyes wide at the arrow lodged in her shoulder plate. She tore the rough-hewn iron arrow out of her shoulder plate and gulped as a thin trail of bright red blood followed. Ori grimaced and nodded, eagerly snatching the small red bottle from Faendal and emptying it in one gulp. Both sighed as the potion took effect; it was painful, but fortunately not deep.

“Hopefully there aren’t any more inside,” Faendal breathed, taking some of a fallen bandit’s steel arrows. Ori sighed as she stood. “There probably will be,” she muttered weakly. Her stomach churned at the idea of encountering more bandits, who would probably try to kill her before asking any questions. “But we have to get that tablet.” Faendal’s mouth drew into a tight line.

“Lead on, then.”

The two bosmer cracked open the heavy iron door and slipped inside; Ori whispered a prayer of thanks that the small group of bandits didn’t notice them. The small group argued amongst themselves before one stormed off into the crypt, leaving the other two fuming to themselves. Faendal leaned over to her. “You take the one on the left and I’ll take the one on the right,” he whispered. She nodded and exhaled softly as she drew her bow. It was easier from afar, where she could pretend they were targets and not people. The bandits fell with pained moans, never knowing what hit them. Without taking time to second-guess themselves, Ori and Faendal followed the third bandit into the tunnels.

\---------

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Ori asked, voice echoing off the stone walls of the barrow’s cavernous inner sanctum. Faendal shook his head silently and stared around the room as the sanctum opened around them. The tumbling waterfalls and the soft sunlight drifting down into the grotto belied the harrowing draugr-infested tunnels they had to carve through to get there.

They followed the rocky trail across a stone bridge and up a long stone staircase, stopping at last step before the ancient stone platform. “I guess it’ll be up there, then,” she said, more to herself than to Faendal, who snorted at her remark.

“It’d better be,” he said. “After all that trouble. No wonder no one else wanted this job… or was it that they just kept disappearing?” Ori shrugged, creeping towards the altar. Considering what happened to the last guy who tried to use the claw and get into the barrow, both were reasonable guesses.

What wasn’t reasonable, Ori thought to herself, was the lack of a Dragon Stone on the altar.

“It’s not here,” she called, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air as she pushed aside damp, moldy wraps in a last effort to find the stone.

“Well, it has to be somewhere.”

With a sharp huff, she crossed her arms and turned back to her companion, who switched his gaze from her to the coffin. No stone, no payment. No payment, and she wasted time she wasn’t sure she had. “Now,” she mused, taking a step towards the ominous black sarcophagus. “If I were a selfish dead nobleman trying to hide my powerful artifact, where would I hide it?”

“Where’s our stone, you musty hoarder?” Faendal smacked the lid of the coffin in punctuation.

Before she could respond, a deep rumble reverberated through the hall and the mountainside, shaking the ground, Ori, Faendal, and sending the alter crashing from the platform. A rock fell over the hole in the grotto ceiling, casting the room in darkness.

Ori and Faendal scrambled to pick themselves up off the ground as torches embedded in the wall began lighting themselves, one by one. It became deadly silent for half a second, then the sarcophagus lid shook violently before flying into the air, a cloud of dust curling over the sides in its wake.

The bosmer drew swords, hoping to defend themselves from this unseen foe. Two piercing blue lights, glowing eyes burning brighter than any fire they knew, stared unblinking through the cloud of dust. A sharp scream, more beast than human, and the undead noble charged at the two, sword drawn.

Its tarnished silver sword collided with the polished iron Hadvar gave her, screeching against the force of the draugr’s blow. With a grunt, Ori pushed back on the draugr and kicked it away. She sliced at its chest when she had room, kept cutting whatever her sword could reach. The undead’s sword grazed across her chestplate, then dangerously close to her neck. Her swings made contact, but didn’t leave enough damage. Not enough at all. Behind her, she could hear the twang of Faendal’s bow, and nearly felt the impact herself as each steel arrow embedded itself into the draugr’s chest and stomach.

Finally, Faendal caught the monster in the eye; it screamed louder than Ori could have thought possible and staggered backwards. Ori took the chance and plunged her sword into its throat and twisted. The draugr’s final scream cut off as its throat crumbled around the iron sword and its eyes dimmed. It sank to the ground and collapsed as dark magic drained from it.

Ori jerked the sword from the draugr’s neck, shaking dust and decayed gore from the blade and Faendal sheathed his bow and collected his fallen arrows. They glanced at each other, still catching their breath, and Ori smiled tiredly at him.

“Now check the coffin,” he breathed, moving past her to the sarcophagus.

Ori’s mind, though, drifted past the Dragon Stone to the wall at the back of the platform. Engraved in a strange, claw-like marking, she hadn’t paid it any mind before. But now, with no other distractions, it called to her. It drew her in with a rushing blue and red light, a dry, fresh wind on her face, that it seemed her companion couldn’t see or feel.

As if in a trance, she walked to it, brushing her fingers against the cool stone. Suddenly, the scratched script made sense to her: she could read the eulogy on the wall, understand the word that called to her.

Fus.

Force.

She reeled from the word’s impact, backing up into Faendal. As she turned around, he looked her over with a concerned eye, checking for injuries. As soon as he determined she was alright, he beamed at her. In both his hands, he held a large stone tablet… the Dragon Stone they’d ventured to the bottom of that treacherous barrow for.

“We did it,” he murmured, turning the smooth stone over in his hands. “Both the claw and the stone, at the same time.”

Ori nodded, tracing over the strange writing with her finger… Same script as the wall. She took the tablet gently out of her friend’s hands and set it in her pack. One way or another, she’d learn why that strange writing was important… and why she could understand it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, it's been more than a month! Thanks for sticking with me! (Grad school applications are due in a week, so hopefully more regular updates soon!)


	6. The Battle of the Western Watchtower

An orange haze settled over Dragonsreach as the sun fell behind a brooding, quickly building wall of clouds. The two bosmer stumbled up the stairs of the great hall, and fell into the nearest seat, dropping the heavy stone onto the table with a deep thud. Ori sighed and opened her eyes as she heard soft footsteps approach her.

“Well,” Irileth mused, glancing over the battered younger elf, “I almost didn’t expect you to make it back.” She nodded, and half of a smile played at her lips, so small it may well have also been a trick of the flickering firelight. “Well done.” Ori managed a weak smile and a small nod in return, despite the housecarl’s voiced doubt of her abilities. (Such a statement seemed high praise coming from her, anyways.) Irileth moved on from the moment of recognition, as if it had never happened. “Don’t get comfortable. Your job isn’t done yet. Farengar will want that stone as quickly as possible.” With that, she turned on her heel and moved back to the Jarl’s side, leaving Ori to groan and trudge into the lab.

The court mage was not alone when she found him hunched over an ancient book: a Breton woman stood at his shoulder, her face obscured by white-streaked blonde hair. Something about her felt important, like she knew far more than she let on, about Ori herself and the return of the dragons. The woman held herself in a tense stance, supporting herself on the desk with one arm and tracing the faded text with her other hand. Farengar’s voice carried a reverent tone Ori hadn’t considered possible from him.

“Now, let me show you something else I found... very intriguing... I think your employers may be interested as well...” Farengar trailed off as he pushed the book gently towards the woman (Ori felt sure she’d seen her before) and opened another text, handling the frail cover as if it would fall apart at any second.

The woman inhaled sharply as she looked up and noticed Ori. Her eyebrows knit together, the sharp lines of her face deepening as she turned an appraising glare first the young bosmer, then the stone in her arms.

“You have a visitor.” Her tone cut through Ori like freezing wind off the Yorgrim. Farengar glanced to her, then back down to the text.

“Ah, yes, the Jarl's protege!” he exclaimed, turning a translucent page. “Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? I guess you didn’t die, then. I suppose you can handle yourself better than it appears.” He tapped the table in front of him and Ori set the stone down, relieved to have the stone out of her hands before she used it to smack the mage. Farengar’s eyes grew wide in excitement as he recognized the stone.

“Ah! _This_ is the real Dragonstone. My—” he glanced cautiously at the Breton, “Associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork.” He picked up the stone and rubbed his thumb over the corner, then handed it to the Breton. “She discovered its location… by means she has so far _declined_ to share with me.” The mage turned to the woman, giving her a rare, genuine smile.

“So your information was correct after all. You know, we have our little bosmer friend over here to thank for recovering it for us.”

The Breton turned her icy blue eyes back to Ori, eyebrow raised in… either disbelief or approval… Ori wasn’t quite sure which. “ _You_ went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that? Nice work.” She turned her attention back to Farengar. “Just send me a copy when you've deciphered it.” The mage nodded, and without another word, the Breton slipped out of the room and left the palace as secretive as she’d entered. Ori leaned to watch her leave, then turned back to Farengar.

“What exactly is that stone? What does it do to people? And who was…”

Farengar cut her off. “All of that is strictly need-to-know,” he said curtly. “And you don’t need to know.” Ori shifted impatiently, her hands balled into fists at her side. There _were_ things she needed to know, and he clearly had answers.

“But she knows something about the barrow,” Ori argued. “Something happened in there— I can’t explain—”

Before Ori could finish, Irileth sprinted into the room, skidding to a halt in front of Farengar’s desk. “Farengar!” The dunmer couldn’t keep the concern from her voice. “Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby.” The mage immediately dropped the stone the short distance to the desk and rounded the large table’s corner. He ran to the stairs, and Irileth turned to Ori. “You’ve been involved with this dragon business. You should come, too.” Farengar’s ill-timed excitement bubbled in his voice.

“A live dragon! Where was it seen? What was it doing?” He rattled his questions off to an increasingly annoyed Irileth.

“I’d take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don’t know if we can stop it. It can and will destroy everything.” The mage’s face fell as they slowed at the top of the stairs, where the Jarl stood with a clearly exhausted young guardsman.

“Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?”

“Yes, my lord,” the young man forced out, breath still thin. He pulled off his helmet and shook out dirty-blond hair. Sweat dripped down his neck and shone from beneath his hair. Irileth walked up behind him and placed a hand on his back. She glanced from the young guardsman to the Jarl. “Tell him what you told me,” she said. “About the dragon.”

The guard shifted. “That’s right. ‘t was coming from the south. That thing was fast… faster than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.” The Jarl sucked in a sharp breath and shifted forward.

“What did it do?” he asked urgently. “Did it attack the watchtower?” The guard shook his head.

“No, my lord. It just… circled. Like it was waiting... watching us. I never ran so fast in my life. I thought it would come after me for sure,” he said. Both Balgruuf and Irileth sighed in relief. At least it hadn’t done anything… yet. That meant they still had time.

The Jarl nodded towards the stairs, meeting the young man’s gaze. “Good work, son,” he said. “We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it.” Ori watched the young man trip his way down the stairs and to the barracks. As soon as he’d left earshot, Balgruuf turned to his housecarl.

“Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there.”

“I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate.”

“Good. Don't fail me.” His tone held a warning, an understanding of what would happen should the dragon not die at the watchtower. The housecarl brought her closed hand to her chest and dipped her head. As she turned to leave, Balgruuf jerked, as if he’d stopped himself from moving forward at the last second. The dunmer froze. “Irileth, wait,” he said. “This isn’t a death or glory mission. If things start going badly…” She breathed a slight chuckle and moved again.

“Don’t worry, my lord. I’m the very soul of caution.” Balgruuf exhaled slowly and nodded, eyes following her as far as he could down the stairwell.

“I’m sorry I don’t have time to stand on ceremony, and you’ve already done so much for this city, but I need you to do one more thing… You survived Helgen… You know more about dragons than any of us.” Ori turned her head up to face him, eyes narrowed and argument forming at the tip of her tongue. The Jarl continued. “Go to the watchtower. Help any way you can.” He walked over to a strategy table and picked up a gleaming Elven bow and matching quiver. “I haven’t forgotten what I owe you, and that promise still stands. Until then, though, take this.” He held it out to her. Her fingers brushed over it, and she glanced down to it, then back up to the Jarl.

“The dragon… I can’t…  I don’t…” Every argument died on her lips. Her hand pulled back sharply as her whole body constricted. Her throat tightened, and she had to force herself to breathe.

“Please understand,” she implored him, voice wavering dangerously. “My only experience with dragons is running from them. I can’t fight… I can’t face it again.”

“ _But you survived_. You walked out of a burning city alive. You faced an ancient tomb and filled with Draugr and walked out with a priceless artifact. Not just anyone can do that, you know.” The Jarl placed the bow in her hand. “You have a strength of heart— a strength of mind— even you don’t fully understand yet. I know you can do this.”

Ori tightened her grip around the weapon. Her heart still pounded. Her jaw set and she gulped back the burning bile in her throat, entertaining the idea that he might be right, that she could face that dragon again; the lives she could save, that they might not suffer the same fate as Helgen.

Dusk had fallen over the tundra plains as the party reached the western watchtower, the bright, burning forms of Secunda and Nassar looming behind Ori and Faendal as they followed Irileth and the guard to the watchtower. Even before they could see the building, the sharp, burning smell of smoke filled their lungs and they fought to suppress their coughs.

Ori looked out from behind the large rock where Irileth had stopped. Much of the watchtower lay in smoldering ruin, dull orange flames illuminating the ground underneath the rubble. Irileth sighed, and loosely gripping the sword at her side, she turned to face the guard.

“Wherever that dragon is now, he’s certainly been here. Go through the rubble, search for survivors.”

The guards nodded and followed her orders. Ori and Faendal glanced met each other’s gaze, then crept forward as quietly as they could move, bows at the ready. She couldn’t see anything, but a feeling of dread settled over her, like something was watching her. Their breath held fast in their throats as they climbed the ruined stairs. Faendal stopped at the doorway, keeping guard.

A grim sight met her inside the tower: A guardsman sat against the back wall of the tower, unable to sit up any way. He’d pulled his helmet off, and he stared at Ori with empty, haunted eyes. His face was sooty and blood-stained. The cloth sigil on his armor had burned away, the leftover chainmail caked with dried blood, and most of his right arm had been charred beyond recognition. Ori’s stomach churned at the smell of burning flesh. The man feebly tried to push himself back into the wall as Ori approached, healing spell humming in her hand.

“No! No! What are you doing?!” the man cried, voice strained and weak. “Th’ dragon! That thing’s still out there!” His breath rattled dangerously in his chest. “It- It picked up Harald and Bjorn, and threw them. Threw them li-like they were nothing!” Ori gulped at his claim but kept her healing spell over his arm. If she only had a few more minutes…

Her spell sputtered and died as the tower shuddered suddenly and some of the guardsmen outside cried out in dismay and the sound of giant wings vibrated through the bosmer. The wounded man in front of her stiffened suddenly, eyes wide and darting around the tower. “Gods, no! Not again!” He jerked violently, trying to stand and run. His injuries started freely bleeding again, then without warning he groaned as something in him snapped, and he fell unconscious.

Ori reeled backwards and stood up, then ran to the doorway. Outside, the dragon flapped its massive wings, hovering before the small group of guards.

“TIID DO ALDUIN AHST LAAT BO!”

Its voice shook the ground and its beating wings threw ash into the air. It flew off to circle what was left of the tower, and Irileth began shouting orders. Ori and Faendal knocked arrows against their bows and let them fly. Then another. And another. Each arrow pricking the beast’s scaly hide but doing nothing more than angering it.

The dragon breathed a column of fire down around the tower, and the archers kept firing. Ori ran out of arrows and switched to magic, her firebolts mingling with Irileth’s lightning, until at last an archer found a chink in the beast’s scales.

The small group of guards rushed the dragon as it skidded along the ground and rammed its arrow-riddled body into the side of the tower, shaking the stone structure. The dragon staggered away from the ruin and snapped its massive jaws at the guardsmen and thrashed its tail, striking down as many as it could manage.

Ori glanced back at Faendal, who nodded at her and began using whatever arrows he could find on the ground. She drew the sword at her hip and blindly rushed forward to face the dragon. As she closed in on it, she could tell its strength was fading. It fought harder, more desperately, to stay alive. It threw the side of its head into her stomach as a guard dug his sword into the back of its neck. Ori was knocked to the ground, and she felt time slow down as the dragon tried to bring its head down on her. She stabbed up, hoping to make any mark. Muscle and bone split and crunched above her. Sticky black blood dripped into her hair and over her armor. With a deafening roar, the dragon reared back, Ori’s sword sticking up through its jaw and out the top of its muzzle. It pushed itself back, trying to stand, but its legs faltered, and it fell at Ori’s feet. The dragon trembled as it choked, fire extinguished in its throat, its last words echoing across the plain.

“Dovahkiin! Niid!”

Before she could move, Faendal was at her side, hand out to her. She took it gladly, and he pulled her up. One hand on her shoulder, he gave her a soft shove. She swayed a bit and took his hand again, and he shook his head.

“That’s not at all what I thought you were going to do,” he remarked, making sure she had her balance before letting go. The corners of Ori’s mouth turned up and she sighed. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t think I was, either.” She turned back to the dragon and with her foot, nudged its cheek. It flopped over. Was it truly dead, then? She studied its bloodied face, the sharp teeth peeking out of its maw. Wait. Her sword. She looked up, suddenly remembering where it was.

As she reached down for her it, the dragon suddenly began trembling again, but this time, it glowed. Ori and Faendal jumped back as bright golden flames engulfed each scale, burning away its flesh and sending gleaming embers to the sky and fading into the stars, until nothing but warm, snow-white bone was left.

The guardsmen gasped when, as the last of the body faded, a bright blue light surrounded Ori, washing over her and into her. She felt like a leaf in the wind, as if that light, that power, had gone straight through her and reached something deeper, far more ancient than she could know.

She felt a strange emptiness, transparent as glass, before it hit her: the dragon’s life, its death, millennia of knowledge, and the word. The one from the barrow. She turned the bloodied sword over in her hands, and more than just knowing what the word meant, she truly understood the meaning of force. Ori sheathed the weapon and turned to the gaping guardsmen.

“You— you’re dragonborn!” Ori tilted her head and, eyebrows furrowed, repeated the word to herself. “You absorbed its soul, didn’t you?” another guard added. “My granddad used to tell me stories—”

“I don’t know about this dragonborn business,” Irileth cut him off, making her way through the ashy grass to the bosmer. “But I do know that was the hairiest fight of my life, and you’re part of the reason we all lived through it. Now come on, we’d better head back.”

As the group set out back to Dragonsreach, a thunderous chorus called from the sky and shook the ground.

“DOVAHKIIN.”


	7. Many Meetings

“You heard the summons. What else could it mean? The Greybeards…” Ori walked into the great hall from a guest room. Early morning sun shone through the hall’s skylights and had she not walked in on the conversation, she could have convinced herself the previous evening was entirely a nightmare. Armor cleaned and hair washed of the sticky black blood, Ori picked up a piece of bread and nibbled it as she made her way toward the group. The hall was empty save for her, Faendal, Balgruuf, Irileth, the Steward, the Jarl’s brother, and a young woman seated at the far end of a table that Ori didn’t recognize. The young woman raised an eyebrow at her before turning back to her breakfast while Faendal picked up an apple and sat in his chair from the day before.

“Good. You’re finally here,” the steward said to her in his reedy voice, leading her over to the group. Hrongar stepped to the side, to give her a bit more room. “We were just talking about you,” he added. “And what happened last night.” Ori nodded and stepped forward. Balgruuf turned up to her.

“What exactly happened when you killed that dragon?”

“It… It glowed, then caught on fire…” Ori paused, careful in her wording. “When it was gone, I absorbed some kind of power from it. I don’t know what it…”

Balgruuf nodded once. “So it’s true; the Greybeards really were summoning you.”

Ori shook her head. “I don’t—”

“The voice, and the earthquake? That was them, calling you from High Hrothgar. They seem to believe you’re Dragonborn.” Ori tightened her jaw and swallowed.

“The men called me that, too. What does it mean?”

“If you are dragonborn, you’re uniquely gifted in the Voice… you can focus your vital essence into a Thu’um, the way a dragon does. It’s a rare and remarkable gift.” Ori exhaled slowly as she processed what the Jarl told her. She hoped it wouldn’t be another delay.

“If they’re calling you, you must be dragonborn!” Hrongar cut in. “This hasn’t happened in… centuries, at least! Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!” Ori gaped at him. That long, then. Proventus snapped her out of her disbelief with a snort.

“Hrongar, calm down,” he said. “What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with Ori here? She helped kill a dragon, yes. But I don’t see any signs of her being this, what, ‘ _Dragonborn_.’” Ori gulped and glanced down at herself. Signs? She hadn’t thought about that. Was she going to turn into a dragon? Grow scales and claws? Turn to stone?! She couldn’t go home if she turned into a dragon, or a statue! Not noticing her, Hrongar fumed at the steward.

“Nord nonsense?! Why you puffed-up, ignorant… These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the first empire!” The steward’s hands flew up in defense.

“I-I meant no disrespect, of course!” he said quickly, trying to undo any damage he’d just done. “It’s just that… what do these Greybeards want with her?”

Balgruuf tapped the arm of his throne. “That’s the Greybeards’ business, not ours.” He turned to Ori and continued. “Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you’re Dragonborn, who are we to argue? If they want you at High Hrothgar, then you’d better get there immediately.” Ori nodded slowly, and exhaled a shaky sigh. Another delay, then.

“It’s just… I just want to go home,” she argued, already knowing the Jarl’s response.

“There’s no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It’s a tremendous honor. They can teach you to use your gift. They’re the _only_ ones who can teach you.”

Ori nodded sadly, already searching her pocket for the money to pay another courier. Balgruuf glanced her over and spoke again, more to himself than to her.

“I envy you, you know. To climb the seven thousand steps again... I made the pilgrimage once; feels like a lifetime ago, now. High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very... _disconnected_ from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before.” He paused, then looked back up to her. “Doesn’t matter now, though. If you’re discovering that you’re dragonborn now, it’s because you’re needed now more than ever. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the greybeards can teach you.” Ori nodded and Hrongar turned and left the circle, walking back to the front of the hall, where the strange young woman waited.

“Before you go,” the Jarl said. “There is one more thing: you've done a great deal for me and my city, Ori. By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor within my power to grant. I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl. She also has the payment I promised for the Dragonstone. We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn.” Ori nodded, trying to keep the disappointment from her expression. Faendal stood from the table and joined her.

“So now what?” he asked. Ori sighed and stared at her boots.

“I’m going to High Hrothgar, I guess… You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I know you want to get back to Riverwood.”

Faendal shook his head. “I promised I’d help you, and right now that means helping you get to High Hrothgar. You’re my friend, and I’m not leaving you to the Nords.” He shrugged at her last statement. “Anyways, everything’ll still be there in a week. Nobody’s just scrambling to work at the mill, and it’s not like Sven’ll be able to undo that letter… ever.” Ori smiled a little and the two walked down the stairs.

As Faendal pulled the door and held it open, a woman cleared her throat. Ori turned around to see the strange young woman from before. With straight dark har, a serious expression, and dressed in armor, Ori’d almost mistaken her for a soldier. The young woman stepped forward and studied Ori.

“It is an honor to meet you, my thane,” she said with an even tone. Ori inclined her head. Apparently, this was Lydia. Faendal nodded bluntly and Ori extended her hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” she responded, unsure of exactly what a housecarl was supposed to do. “So, uh, do you just… hang around here? I’m just… not sure why I need a housecarl?” Lydia huffed sharply.

“I’m sworn to support you in everything you do. To carry your burdens and protect you with my life,” she responded in a flat, rehearsed voice. She finished more candidly, “You’re my boss. I’m supposed to keep you from getting killed. I guess you don’t have housecarls in Valenwood. It’s mostly a Skyrim thing. I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know about Skyrim, and I can guide you to any of the major cities.”

Faendal grumbled behind her and Ori set her jaw. Fourth time in less than a week. “I’ve lived in this country my whole life. But there aren’t many housecarls in the Gray Quarter.” Lydia swallowed and turned bright red at her mistake.

“Sincerest apologies, my thane,” she said, snapping back into her rehearsed speech pattern. She cleared her throat, then added. “I can help you get to High Hrothgar, if you wish.” Ori glanced back at Faendal, who still stood halfway in the door and halfway out.

“Well,” she said. “If you don’t mind travelling in a group…” Lydia stared at Faendal as a guard pushed him inside and slammed the door shut; she pressed her lips together.

“I am sworn to protect you, my thane… no matter the company you keep.” Faendal rolled his eyes, but Ori smiled. “Let’s get going, then. The sooner we get up there, the sooner we do what they want and the sooner we get to go home.” She threw open the door, hitting the guard who’d pushed Faendal inside, and marched down the steps, more determined to finish with the Greybeards quickly. Lydia followed her a few feet behind.

“You don’t know much about the Greybeards, do you, my thane?”

\------

“… and that’s how a city girl wound up fighting a dragon,” Ori finished. She’d started her story soon after passing a tower bridge and only just stopped. The sun peeked out over the trees, casting long shadows in front of them on the road. She and Lydia trailed behind Faendal, who, with bow drawn, stalked a small deer. It jerked its head up, ears swiveling, then caught the groups scent and bounded off across the river. Faendal groaned and dropped his arms to the side.

“I’m going up to the trees. I can see better up there, and you won’t _scare off the food_.” Lydia huffed. “Fine,” she responded. “Of course we’d get stuck with the only bosmer that can’t shoot a moving target.” Ori looked at her sideways.

“Well, he did shoot a draugr. Those move. Kind of.” Faendal nodded at her, added a “humph” of agreement, and climbed up into the trees.

“I can think of about ten better ways to shoot a deer than to climb up in a tree,” Lydia called up into the branches. Faendal glanced down, shooting Lydia a half-hearted glare.

“Why don’t you get dinner, then?” With that, he took off ahead of the others. Ori and Lydia walked on in silence.

Finally, Ori turned her head back to her new housecarl. It was certainly hard to tell what the Nord thought of her. The wind blew just enough for her hair to cover the side of her face, so Ori couldn’t see her expression, either.

“So,” she asked. “What’s your story? How’d you get to be a housecarl?” That caught the housecarl off-guard. Clearly, she hadn’t expected a thane to be interested in why she was there.

“Ah, well, I guess it just… happened,” Lydia fumbled. “Not much to tell, really. I mean… my father, uh, knows the Jarl.”

“So then you’re a city girl, too?” Lydia turned her head a little more towards Ori and smiled.

“I guess so.”

At that moment they heard a rustling in the bushes, then heavy bootsteps. “I guess you ‘city girls’ should hand over your wallets, then, if you don’t wanna see what a mace can do t’ yer head,” a voice thick with mead and smoke said.

The two whipped around to see a hefty bandit brandishing a wicked glass mace at them. Lydia’s hand flew to the sword at her side, but Ori stopped her. “I don’t want to kill him,” she said quietly. Lydia’s jaw clenched but her sword arm relaxed.

“Look,” Ori began in her sweetest and most innocent tone, “You really don’t want to kill us. Do we look like we have anything valuable?”  The bandit glanced over her and Lydia, then grinned and rubbed the mace.

“Actually, you look like you’re rolling in gold. And because you tried to lie to me, darlin’, I think I’m going to kill you both anyways.”

Lydia drew her sword and Ori’s had flew to her bow, but the bandit swung the mace into Lydia’s hand, knocking the weapon from it with a painful-sounding crack. From that swing, he held the mace to Ori’s neck. “You really wanna try it, darlin’?” he asked smugly. The young bosmer gulped and pulled her hand away from her bow.

“You know we’re worth more to you alive than dead, right?” Lydia asked, trying to buy Faendal more time to take out the bandit, if by any luck he was nearby. “You could ransom us.” Ori turned to her, frown deepening as her housecarl spoke.

“I hope your family has the money to go through with this because mine—” she protested. The bandit drew back his mace to hit Ori over the head.

“My father is the Jarl of Whiterun’s brother!” Lydia exclaimed, causing the bandit to stop mid-swing. “And she’s the thane of Whiterun. Look, we’re carrying five thousand Septims. My uncle would pay triple that to get us back to the city _alive_.” The bandit dropped his mace, eyes bulging at the large coin purse she’d pulled out of her pack, and the promise of even more.

“No kiddin’?” he asked, dumbfounded. There was a soft rustle of leaves behind her, and the creak of a hunting bow being drawn.

“No kidding,” she responded, smiling. The bandit didn’t have time to respond. An arrow flew by her head as she spoke, and the bandit lay dead at their feet. Ori and Lydia turned around to the tree as Faendal slid down the side, three pheasants hanging over his shoulder.

“Well,” Lydia said. “It’s not a deer, but at least we’re alive to eat it.”

Eating always did wonders for a group’s temperament, Ori noticed; at least, after some smoked pheasant and wine, Lydia and Faendal weren’t constantly at each other’s throats. And even though they walked along in the freezing night, Ori felt just a little warmer.

Curiosity still gnawed at her, though. What Lydia had said before, first her reluctance to talk about her past, then her admission to the bandit. It made her wonder…

“Is it true?” she asked suddenly. Lydia seemed to know what she was talking about, and sighed, nodding. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it, but yes.” Ori cocked her head, and Faendal had started listening, slowing his pace so he was walking next to the housecarl.

“My parents were young, and not married, so even though I lived in Dragonsreach, we still had to be quiet about it. People like the Grey-Manes could’ve used it against us or something like that. Not even the Jarl’s children know about it. Becoming housecarl was my father and uncle’s way of making sure I would have a place in court no one could take away. It’s just politics.”

Ori nodded and turned her eyes toward her boots, worried she had pried too far into her housecarl’s business. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Must not’ve been easy growing up like that. We definitely had some politics in the Gray Quarter.” She thought back to the different houses, trying to maintain their importance even after fleeing to Skyrim; she’d always been happy to remain a neutral party to all of that. Ori shook her head. They were far from both their previous lives, now, and there was no turning back.

They walked through the night, only stopping for a few hours’ rest at a crossroads, and finally reached the tiny town of Ivarstead as the morning sun brushed the tops of the trees. After getting directions from the innkeeper, and agreeing to take some supplies up to the monastery courtesy of a complete stranger, the group began their long trek up the seven thousand steps.

“Balgruuf was right,” Ori commented as they passed the fifth altar. “It is quiet up here.” Lydia shrugged.

“Quiet except for the maybe ten wolves we’ve already run across?” Ori shook her head.

“Okay, but that doesn’t really count. There are wolves everywhere.”

Faendal chuckled at her comment, reaching behind Lydia to clap Ori’s shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t have said that this time last week,” he added. Ori and Lydia glanced at each other then shrugged, and they continued walking.

The sound of the wind whipping around the mountain drowned out the sounds of the town below, and as they climbed higher, and the air became thinner, the howling wind, too fell silent. All that existed was them, the mountain, and a pure, bright blue sky. Ori breathed deeply and exhaled, listening to the sound of her breath echo around her. The sun was now at its mid-day height, and with few trees around, it cast its warm rays onto them. She closed her eyes as she walked and listened to the sounds of the mountain.

But as she listened, she heard something else, something that wasn’t part of their group. Her ear twitched and her face scrunched as she strained to listen to the unfamiliar sound. It was a grunting… something between an animal and a human… the group rounded a bend, then froze, catching Ori before she could take another step.

A frost troll. ­­­­­­­

The trio held their breath and stood statue-still, until Ori finally swallowed. The frost troll must have sensed her movement, and turned to face them. It jumped up and down for a minute, then stopped and cocked its head at the group when they took a step back. It grunted and took a lumbering step towards them. Ori glanced at Lydia and Faendal.

“I don’t think it wants us to pass.” The others nodded, and Faendal broke away from the group, slowly drawing his bow from its place on his back.

“Don’t worry,” he said, mustering up all the confidence he could. “I’ve got this.” He drew his bow as the troll plodded forward and fired. The beast roared but didn’t fall.

“Oh, good,” Lydia remarked, sending a barbed glare to the bosmer. “Now it’s angry.” The troll clawed at the arrow in the side of its neck, digging at the barbed moonstone arrow until it had wrested the shaft from the tip, dropping the wooden shaft to the ground and crushing it beneath its feet. Faendal dropped his bow to his side as the face fell. The beast jumped up and down angrily before giving another roar and taking off toward the group.

“Now what?!” Ori asked, pulling back. A great swipe of the troll’s claws pulled the stranger’s supplies off her back. The troll trampled them. Lydia dragged Ori around the side of the troll, and Faendal scrambled after them.

“Run!” Lydia shouted, pushing her thane in front of her. They could make it to High Hrothgar, if they ran fast enough.

The great iron doors of High Hrothgar flung open with more force than humanly possible, and with the frost troll still on their heels, the trio sprinted up the stairs and into the building, only stopping when they tripped on the next flight of stairs, landing in an ungraceful heap at the bottom. Still, the monster barreled toward them; its howls ringing through the ancient stone building. They braced themselves for a strike the beast never delivered.

A voice louder than thunder resonated through their entire being. One word flattened the companions against the stairs, and launched the frost troll through the door and down the mountain. The doors swung closed easily behind the beast, drawing out the howling wind with it, as if the ordeal never happened. The heavy, musty air that was left behind felt like a vacuum in the room. Breath still ragged in their throats, the Dragonborn and her companions pulled themselves up from the stairs and stood in the center of the room, waiting for the Voice to speak again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Two chapter update! There should be another chapter coming soon (like within the next week or so) Thanks for sticking with me!


	8. The Stairs of High Hrothgar

“So… A Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

Ori swiveled her head around the room, trying to find the source of the Voice. Faendal put a hand on her shoulder and discreetly pointed to the top of the shadowed stairs, where Ori could just make out the hem of a heavy grey robe. An aging Nord monk walked slowly down the stairs, and three others followed silently behind him. So, Ori thought, these are the Greybeards. They certainly liked their mysteries. They stood in an arc in front of Ori.

“Step forward, Dragonborn, so that we may properly see you,” the speaker said again. Ori stepped into the very center of the room, leaving Faendal and Lydia behind her. At last she could see the voice that addressed them: the first monk, with a long grey beard tied in a knot at the end. His serious expression looked centuries-old and worn, though his golden eyes were still sharp and bright.

“I’m here to answer your summons,” Ori said, dipping her head slightly at the old monk, who tilted his head a little and stepped in front of the other Greybeards.

“We will see if you truly have the gift. Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your voice. Your Shout will not hurt us.”

Ori inhaled, remembering the word from the barrow. Fus. Now it was not just a word, it was a living action. It boiled in her chest and she shouted. The word transformed at her lips, releasing a force hard enough to send several vases sailing into the wall, and push the old master several feet backwards. The residual shout echoed around the room, kicking up dust and swirling it into the air.

When he regained his balance, the old monk beamed at her. “Welcome, Dragonborn, to High Hrothgar,” he said, voice warmer now. “I am master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. It is true that we summoned you, but why have you answered?”

Ori’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she inclined her head a bit. She chewed the inside of her mouth, thinking to herself before answering.

“I want to find out what it means to be Dragonborn.” Arngeir smiled again.

“And so you will. We are here to guide you, just as we have guided all others of the Dragon Blood before you.” Ori nodded slowly, before shaking her head a little. Others?

“You mean there have been other Dragonborn before me?” she asked, feeling a little stupid. Of course there had been Dragonborn before. But they were people like Tiber Septim, and the other great dragonborn emperors. Dragonborn weren’t people like her.

“Yes, Dragonborn. The others before you came from all walks of life… you may not even be the only dragonborn alive. But you must be the last born, and the only one revealed to us for now.” He stepped forward to take her hand in his.

“There will be time enough for questions later. You should begin your training right away.” As he started to guide her up the stairs, Ori slipped out of his grasp and stepped back to Lydia and Faendal.

“What about my friends?” Arngeir turned back to them, only now noticing them.

“Well, I should think that is their choice, whether they stay or not?” he finally said. “It makes no difference to us, but the destiny of Dragonborn is one that is meant for you alone.” The bosmer first turned to Lydia.

“I am your sword and your shield, my thane. I am sworn to stay by your side even if it means,” she sighed, glancing around the monastery, “Sitting at the top of a mountain for however long you’re here.”

Ori smiled and nodded, then turned to Faendal. She gave a shallow inhale and exhaled a shaky sigh. She knew he was long expected in Riverwood. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him. “You’ve done so much for me. I don’t know where I’d be without you. It feels like we met months ago, when it was really—” her voice trailed off, unwilling to count the days. “But now, I think you should go home. You have a life down there, a future that’s waiting for you.” Faendal glanced to the Greybeards, then back to her, nodding silently. When she’d finished speaking, he threw his arms around her into a tight hug.

“Take care of yourself, little sister,” he said into her hair, giving her one last hug before letting go and hesitantly leaving the High Hrothgar. ­­

Ori met Arngeir’s gaze and stepped forward. “Alright,” she said. “What is my destiny?” Arngeir sighed as he walked next to her up the steps.

“That is for you to discover. We can show you the Way, but not your destination.” Leaving the other Greybeards and Lydia behind, they walked through wide iron doors and crossed a snow-covered courtyard to a rocky ledge, where a small cairn overlooked the mountainside.

“Are you ready to begin your training, Dragonborn?” Ori nodded.

“Yes, you are Dragonborn. Your inborn gift allows you to Shout without the years of study it would require one of us. But do you have the discipline to follow your destined path, laid out for you before your birth? Hm,” he shot her an appraising gaze. “That remains to be seen.” Arngeir knelt at the altar and motioned for her to join him. She raised an eyebrow but did as she was told.

“The first lesson of the Thu’um is patience. You must understand the proper timing of a Shout, and have the patience to allow your voice to recharge.” The Greybeard closed his eyes, and Ori followed suit. “The best way to improve patience is meditation.” Ori sighed and waited a few seconds. So they would just sit? Until they thought she could Shout again? Silence among friends was one thing, but waiting for nothing? She opened her eyes and the corners of her mouth pulled downward, jaw clenched. Just a few more seconds…

“So, how long are we going to meditate, anyways?” she asked, breaking their short silence. Arngeir exhaled slowly then straightened his head, eyes still closed.

“Until your patience is improved… so most likely for a while.”

Ori threw her hands into her lap and flopped onto her ankles. “It’s not that I don’t want to sit on a mountain for months to learn how to breathe properly, I just have a time constraint and I’m already two weeks late, and—”

“Leave your worries to the Divines, Dragonborn,” he said solemnly, opening his eyes and standing. “You have a destiny— one that the entire world depends on— that you must focus on and prepare for. But we cannot teach you if you are unwilling to learn.” He offered Ori his hand to pull her up, but she refused, and stood on her own. He sighed again, glancing her over. “You will have to learn patience, but for now, there is another lesson we can teach you. Follow me.”

Ori followed Arngeir back into the ancient stone building, where the other Greybeards gathered. They stood in an arc, just as they had when Ori had first met them, and she wondered to herself if that was their default position. Arngeir stood her in front of them and spoke again.

“Without training, without meditation, you have already taken the first steps towards projecting your Voice into a Thu’um… Since you are not yet ready for our methods, let us see if you are willing to learn by different means.”

“When you Shout, you speak in the Dragon Tongue. Your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn these Words of Power.” He whispered something in an unfamiliar tongue, and strange symbols— the same writing from the Wall— appeared on the floor, blazing characters hovering just over the stone. “As you master all three words of each Shout, you will become stronger.”

“For now, let us focus on mastering two Words. This one,” he pointed at the second word on the floor, “is Ro, and belongs with Fus, the Word you already know, to create Unrelenting Force.” Ori bent down and brushed the burning word with her fingers, surprised at how cool the fire felt to her touch. She took in the word in and felt it push its way into her mind. Standing up, Ori turned to face Arngeir, the new Word burning the tip of her tongue.

The old master could see the success in her eyes. “You learn like a master,” he breathed. “You truly have the gift.” He shook his surprise away and continued. “Learning the word itself is only the first step. You must also unlock its meaning through constant practice… at least, that is how the rest of us must learn.

“As Dragonborn, you can absorb another’s knowledge of the Word directly. As part of your initiation into our order, master Einarth will allow you to tap into his knowledge of Ro.”

The Greybeard in the center, with a long, bushy beard stepped forward. His warm brown eyes held a smile for the young bosmer as he bowed to her, hands folded in front of him; a bright, blue light like the energy from the dragon rushed through her. The word that burned itself into her tongue now felt as if it belonged. She took it into herself and understood it as it was meant to be used. Einarth took his place with the other Greybeards and Arngeir spoke again.

“Now, Dragonborn, it is time for us to see how quickly you can master this new Word.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her to the center of the room, then took his place at the top of a stone circle. The others stood around the circle as he did.

One of the Greybeards (one with a neatly trimmed beard) spoke: “Fiik lo sah!” and a spectral monk stood before her. Ori gasped as it glanced around the room, then focused its gaze on her, though she felt like it stared through her rather than at her. Arngeir nodded at the spectral Greybeard. “Use your Thu’um to strike it.”

“FUS… RO!” The target faltered and disappeared.

“Again,” Arngeir said. Einarth shouted another specter into existence.

“FUS… RO!” The target fell again.

“Well done. Again.” Another target, another Shout.

After the fourth exchange, Arngeir stepped up next to Ori. “Impressive,” he remarked, facing her. “You show great promise, Dragonborn.” A small smile appeared on the bosmer’s face, despite herself.

“Does that mean I’m ready for my next trial?”

“In due time. For now, I ask you this: are you prepared to follow our path and learn what we have to teach you?” Ori glanced down to her boots, remembering what the old master had said earlier. About not letting her situation distract from her destiny. Though she was sure he didn’t understand it, she hoped he would at least let her solve it halfway with a letter home. At least she could explain where she was.

“I am.”

Arngeir nodded. “Good. Do not be afraid, Dragonborn. Things have a way of working themselves out.” He guided her to a hall off the East side of the building. “Get some rest. Your training begins in earnest tomorrow.”

Her bed in High Hrothgar was stone, a platform along the edge of a communal guest space. She set down her pack and changed into her old, worn dress that’d followed her from Riverwood then stared around the dark room. Behind her, Lydia grumbled something about how cold the stone was and why the Greybeards wanted their guests to be as miserable as they were. Ori shook her head and pulled out a quill and some paper.

> _“Dad:_
> 
> _~~I hope this letter finds you well.~~ I hope you’re doing alright. I haven’t gotten a response to your last letter, the one I sent from Riverwood, but you might have sent it to Whiterun. ~~Please respond to my letter.~~ You should send it to the inn in Ivarstead. (funny that I get stuck studying here, of all places, isn’t it?) Don’t worry, I’ll get them there. If you have time, please send socks. Mine now have a rather large hole._
> 
> _I found out in Whiterun that I’m something called ‘Dragonborn,’ and I need to study to learn how to use my gift. (It doesn’t feel like a gift right now. Not that I’m ungrateful, I just can’t tell a difference.) I’m studying with the Greybeards. They’re a group of monks, but I don’t know which Divine they worship. I’ll ask tomorrow. Either way, I suspect I’ll be meditating a lot for… however long they feel they need to teach me. I hope they’re done soon. I miss home terribly. Tell everyone I miss them, ~~and tell Rolff that I’ll shout at him the next time I see him.~~_
> 
> _Love, Ori”_

How could any one person spend so much time sitting on a ledge, waiting for nothing? Ori asked herself that more times than she could count over the next month. While Lydia travelled between the monastery and the tiny town, delivering letters and clearing out allegedly haunted barrows behind peoples’ houses, Ori meditated on the same ledge, at the same alter, always with a Greybeard beside her, guiding her every move.

It was in those moments, though, that she learned more about her teachers. Even if they never spoke. Arngeir was a strict teacher, quieting her conversations whenever she was supposed to be meditating. But at the end of the day, when they finished meditating and she’d used the same Thu’um until her voice was raw, he often commented on her improvement, and how quickly she was learning.

Borri and Wulfgar, she discovered, were the most difficult to tell apart. Both nodded to her politely when she passed, but otherwise kept to themselves. What she did know was that Borri often cooked their meals, and somehow made food surprisingly edible, considering most of it was dried or otherwise preserved. Wulfgar, on the other hand, maintained the books of High Hrothgar, repairing them when necessary, re-lettering the faded volumes, painting intricate designs along the sides of the pages, and re-binding the texts when the covers wore off.

Ori found Einarth the most pleasant to be around, however. The oldest of the four, Einarth was perfectly satisfied to follow others rather than lead. When he guided her in meditation, he encouraged her one-sided conversations, and listened carefully as she told him about her past and the world that she grew up in. Whenever she succeeded in a task, his eyes lit up in a grandfatherly pride for her.

It was with that pride that he brought her one day to a massive set of intricate iron gates. She had passed through them often, on her way to her meditation spot. She hadn’t thought anything of them before; they were always open, and no one used them around her.

“You have made excellent progress, Dragonborn. I believe you are ready for your next trial. It is time for us to see how you learn a completely new Shout.” Borri stepped forward. “Master Borri will teach you Wuld… Whirlwind.” Borri bowed before Ori, and the same blue light rushed through her. “Hear the word within yourself before you project it into a Thu’um,” Arngeir said. “Master Wulfgar will demonstrate this exercise, then you will follow. Use your new Shout to pass through the gate before it closes.”

Borri turned away from Ori and shouted at the gate: “Bex!” It opened by itself. Arngeir, Einarth and Borri stepped back, leaving Wulfgar and Ori side by side in front of the gate. Wulfgar drew a deep breath.

“WULD NAH KEST!”

In a blur, the Greybeard passed through the gate and stopped just before the altar on the other side. Borri stepped in front of the group again. Ori drew a deep breath, as Wulfgar had, bouncing a little on her feet. What if she didn’t make it? What if her aim was bad? What if she didn’t time it—

“Bex!”

Before she could think, her body reacted. “WULD!” In a blur, she’d passed through the gates, stopping just beyond them. Not as far as Wulfgar, but still through the gates. She didn’t know how she’d done it… like it was a knee-jerk reaction…

Arngeir seemed just as amazed as she felt. He walked up to her, gold eyes wide. “Your quick mastery of a new Thu’um is… astonishing.” He shook his head. “I’d heard the stories of the abilities of a Dragonborn, but to see them for myself…” Ori beamed at him. Maybe he finally had enough confidence in her skills to let her go home.

“Thank you, master. What next?”

“For the last month, you have walked the Greybeards’ path, learned the Way of the Voice. You have meditated, and have deepened your knowledge of both yourself and your Thu’um. I believe you are now ready for your last trial.”

\------

“So they’re telling us that the founder of the Greybeards, one of the greatest heroes in Nord culture, is buried in this tomb, in the middle of a swamp, and you can’t be an official Dragonborn until you bring back his probably-rotted old horn?” Lydia asked as they descended the slick, mossy steps of Ustengrav. Ori didn’t notice the moss on the last step and her legs shot out from under her as she landed on her rear and slid down the step.

“They probably didn’t know there’d be necromancers,” she offered as Lydia pulled her up from where she’d slipped. Maybe they didn’t know about the necromancers. What did they do for the others’ initiations, she wondered? Maybe this initiation was why there were so few Greybeards to begin with.

The door cracked open and Ori and Lydia slipped inside. The bodies of a few unfortunate bandits and necromancers greeted them in the first room, the ground around them littered with oxidized ancient arrows, causing the women to stop and listen for any other living beings in the tomb. Ori drew a breath and closed her eyes again, ears perking up to listen.

She couldn’t hear any voices. Nothing but the echo of ancient bones pounding against the stone floors, and the wet, crackling imitations of breathing she had discovered were common amongst draugr. She exhaled sharply and snuck to the doorway to the first room. Hopefully she could shoot any undead they met before they noticed their living intruders.

\-----

“Jurgen Windcaller had better not pop out of his coffin,” Lydia complained as a set of wide iron doors swung open. “I’m almost out of arrows.” Ori huffed. “I am, too,” she whispered. “But we shouldn’t get our hopes up. Not after what the rest of this tomb was like.”

The doors opened onto a vast hall, with large sconces along an ancient stone walkway that flared to life; imposing iron eagles rose from the long pools that lined the hall and loomed over Ori and Lydia. Deathly stillness hung in the air as the two crept towards strangely-inscribed stone coffin, all to wary of the possibility of traps. Once they reached the coffin, they noticed they weren’t the first there. A small, scribbled note sat in place of the horn, and a nearly-hidden door was cracked open just behind the coffin. Ori picked up the note.

>             _Dragonborn,_
> 
> _I need to speak to you. Urgently._
> 
> _Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood and I’ll meet you._
> 
> _\- A Friend_

Ori folded the note and tucked it into her pocket. “Well,” she said, taking off toward the door. “I guess our next stop is Riverwood.”


	9. At the Sign of the Sleeping Giant

_Why Riverwood?_ Ori wondered as she and Lydia hopped down, out of the moving carriage. Oh, the two had had a _time_ trying to convince the driver to take them to Riverwood from Whiterun, and had only succeeded after paying him the cost to go all the way to Falkreath. Didn’t want to ‘go all out of the way for nothing.’ _Hmph_ , Ori thought, _well, he didn’t walk all the way from Ustengrav to Whiterun_. She crossed her arms as the carriage passed through the south town gates and disappeared up the hill.

Riverwood was stuck in its own little world; nothing had changed from the day she’d arrived there with Hadvar. Even the small group of guards posted along the town gates seemed sleepier here, like they were just part of the architecture.

What could her ‘friend’ possibly want from here, of all places? She scanned each doorway from where she’d stopped in front of Alvor’s house, searching for anyone who might have been able to sneak into Ustengrav, survive, and know to take only the Horn. She didn’t even notice a different friend sneak up behind her.

“Miss me already?” She jumped when she heard Faendal’s voice, not even a foot behind her. As soon as she turned around, the bosmer threw his arms around her and drew her into a tight hug. Ori returned it, then pulled back.

“Do you always sneak up on people like that?” she asked, before adding, “And I’m here to meet someone at the inn. They’ve got something of mine. Wanted to figure out who it was before I talked to them.” Ori crossed her arms again and glanced around behind Faendal.

Faendal arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Someone stole the horn the Greybeards sent me to go get, and I can’t go back empty-handed, so…”

“Hm,” Faendal hummed absently, crossing his arms in careful thought. “Mystery Horn Thief? Well, I haven’t seen anyone new come into town, but then, I also haven’t been to the inn lately. Don’t really care for anyone spitting in my ale, y’know. Perhaps your friend snuck in in the middle of the night. Sounds reasonable enough for a friend with _nothing_ but honest business.” Ori shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Well, of course it’s not honest business. I just want to get the horn, go back to High Hrothgar, and—”

“And get home,” Faendal finished for her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know you do, but maybe this person can help. They’ve clearly done their research, and maybe they’ve been following you around anyways? I mean, that’s a little creepy, but—” Ori threw her hand over his mouth. Faendal sputtered and pulled back sharply.

“Not so loud!” she whispered harshly. “What if they’re listening now?”

“Erm… they’re probably not. Well, only one way to find out if this friend is helpful or not.” He gestured to the door of the inn and Ori shrugged, stepping away from him.

“Let’s hope they are.”

Nothing seemed amiss when Ori and Lydia walked into the inn. Well, Sven glared at the two of them and promptly took a seat in the corner, but other than that, the Sleeping Giant appeared to be a perfectly normal, perfectly sleepy small-town inn.

Ori looked around the inn. Hm. Her friend apparently didn’t know the place too well: there didn’t seem to be an attic anywhere. Well, maybe it was above the back room? She took a blind step forward, studying the building.

“Hey! Watch it!” a sharp voice yelped, and Ori snapped back to reality just in time to catch two overflowing mugs of ale. “Orgnar! Come help me clean this up!” Ori set the mugs down on the table behind her and looked up.

“It’s you!” Ori said, realization dawning on her. The Breton from Farengar’s study stared back at her, jaw set.

“Yes, it’s me,” she responded shortly, wiping some spilled ale on her apron. “I’m the innkeeper. Now, are you here for any reason other than spilling my customers’ drinks?” Ori blinked, and Lydia nudged her elbow.

“I, uh, yes! I’d like to rent the attic room? And I’ll, um, I’ll pay to replace those drinks.” The Breton’s lips pressed into a hard line, eyes narrowed. She inclined her head.

“Well,” she said. “We don’t have an attic room. You can have that one over there. Make yourself at home.” She gestured to the room closest to Ori and pocketed her gold before picking up the spilled mugs and taking them back to the counter.

There wasn’t much room to turn around: Lydia glanced at either wall, then reached out and touched both at once, almost knocking over the room’s only lamp. Ori sighed and sat on the bed, and Lydia in the tiny room’s only chair. Why was Farengar’s _associate_ working in an inn? And why was she so suspicious of someone renting a room? Ori yawned, resting her head in her hands. So much mystery made her tired. And it had been a long day. Surely she had time for a few minutes of sleep…

“So you’re the Dragonborn I’ve been hearing so much about.” Ori bolted upright and stood, Lydia along with her. The innkeeper glanced over her appraisingly, then reached into a bag she’d brought in with her. “I think you’re looking for this,” she said, handing her an ancient horn. “We need to talk.” Ori opened her mouth. “Somewhere safe,” the innkeeper added. “Follow me.”

“Hey Delphine, that bosmer really did a number on this—”

“I know, Orgnar, just try to get it cleaned out!” the innkeeper, Delphine apparently, called as they walked across the inn.

They followed her out of the tiny room and into the back room, where the innkeeper stood at a tall, surprisingly wide wardrobe. “Close the door,” she ordered. Lydia glanced at Ori, hand at the hilt of her sword. Ori sent her housecarl a slight shake of her head and did as the innkeeper asked.

A false back panel inside the wardrobe led Ori and Lydia to a small basement room. Outfitted with an alchemy lab, enchanting table, and the trappings of a master swordsman, this room hardly looked like it belonged in an inn. Delphine stood on the far side of an old dining table, small black book closed in front of her, large map underneath the book.

“ _You_ stole the Horn?” Ori asked. The corners of the Delphine’s mouth turned up.

“Surprised? Maybe my innkeeper act _is_ getting better.”

“No, I was just expecting someone… taller.”

“That makes two of us,” she said, pushing aside the black book. It was identical to the one in Farengar’s study, with a silver dragon emblem on the cover. Ori shook her head and turned her attention back to the innkeeper. “The Greybeards seem to think you’re Dragonborn. I hope they’re right.” Ori drew a breath before crossing her arms, mimicking the Delphine’s stance.

 “They _are_ right: I am Dragonborn. What do you want with me?”

“I didn’t go to all this trouble on a whim. I needed to make sure all these rumors weren’t just an involved Thalmor trap. I promise I am not your enemy. I just want you to hear me out.”

“So you come up with an overly complicated plot to get me alone, way off the track to High Hrothgar, just because you want to help me?” Any hope Faendal had convinced her of was fading fast.

“Well I couldn’t contact you while you were holed up on that mountain. Look, I do want to help you… As soon as I heard them call you, I knew they’d want you to pass their little test. They’re nothing if not predictable,” Delphine said flatly. “I just didn’t think they’d take this long to send you.”

“You still haven’t told me why you want to help me.”

“I’m part of a group that’s been looking for you… well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is. Before I tell you any more, I need to make sure I can trust you.”

“Well if you don’t believe I am, why did you go to all the trouble to bring me here in the first place?” Ori demanded.

“Sometimes you need to take a chance… make sacrifices… to get what you want,” Delphine responded, tone sharper than before, hands balled into fists on the table. She continued before Ori could interrupt her. “The Dragonborn is the ultimate dragon slayer. It isn’t your destiny to meditate on the side of a mountain for the rest of your days. In fact, if we don’t help each other, there might not be a ‘rest of your days.’ You were given a gift, and you have to use it. What the Greybeards aren’t telling you is that while you’re cloistered up safe on that mountain, dragons are coming back to life and you’re the only one who can stop it.”

Ori blinked. Of all the explanations she could have thought of, that hadn’t been one of them. At any rate, it was still rather cryptic in of itself. Lydia stepped up to the table and set her hands down on the table. “Do you know how crazy this sounds?” she asked. “How can dragons be coming back to life?”

“I don’t know how; all I know is that dragon burial mounds are showing up empty. I know where the next one will come back to life. That’s where we’re going.” Delphine turned away from Lydia and pointed at Ori. “When we get there, you’re going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Ori glanced at the book and the map, then back to Delphine, still not fully confident. Even she wasn’t sure she could kill another dragon, not after that last fight. She only knew three shouts, and none of them involved fire. “How did you figure this out?” Delphine smiled.

“You should know. Recognize the map? That’s the Dragonstone. It’s a map of dragon burial sites.” She pointed at the map. “See here? These are the ones already empty. It’s spreading from near Riften. This one, near Kynesgrove, is next.” Ori stepped back and turned her gaze to Delphine.

“Wait… I think I know that mound. It’s on a hill behind the inn? Pretty high up, I think. I grew up in Windhelm and sometimes there were miners who needed to be healed, so we stopped there when we were going to Riften, and—”

“Good, good. At least we won’t have to spend time searching for it. We should get moving. No time to waste.” Delphine gave a curt nod and pulled some armor out from an old, dusty chest. “We’ll travel together,” she said pointedly. “Just so you don’t get lost and end up in Ivarstead instead of Kynesgrove.” Ori sighed and straightened her stance. She unfolded her arms and rest her hand against her dagger hilt.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

It felt strange to be on the road with someone she’d met less than a day ago; stranger, still, that she might have to trust this person with her life. They reached Whiterun again just as the stars began appearing in the late dusk sky, and only after Ori nearly fell over from exhaustion did Delphine relent and accept a carriage to Windhelm. ( _Only_ on the condition that they not go into the city and go directly to Kynesgrove.) Still, it gave them the few hours rest they were sorely lacking.

Lydia and Ori exchanged glances as they walked behind Delphine. They didn’t know how much time they had before the dragon would allegedly come back to life, but the innkeeper’s urgency put them on edge.

As they approached the tiny town, the sweet, noxious smell Ori had come to associate with dragons filled their lungs. A disheveled woman ran down the side of the hill, panting and constantly glancing behind her. The woman ran closer and Ori’s stomach sank as she recognized her.

“Iddra?” she asked as the Nord ran into the group. Ori caught the taller woman by the shoulders. Iddra shook her head, focusing her fear-stricken eyes; she looked shocked to see the bosmer. “Ori?” she asked in disbelief before her terror overtook again. “I don’t know why you’re here, but you need to get out of here… It’s up there, at the old mound! The dragon! I think it’s doing something to the mound!” Lydia and Delphine continued up the hillside as Ori tried to calm Iddra down.

“It’s okay. I’m here to stop it. Could you tell what it was doing?”

Iddra cast her a brief scathing glance. “You’re a smart girl, Ori. Don’t go up there. You know better. We need to go tell the Jarl where the dragon is, let him handle it.” Ori dropped her hands and backed away from Iddra.

“You go on ahead. I know what I’m doing.”

Iddra brought a hand to her mouth with a choked-off sound, then took off down the road. Ori sucked in a breath and ran up the hill towards the dragon.

**Author's Note:**

> And thus the Dragonborn’s story finally begins! I’ll try to update as regularly as I can, but between marching band and grad school applications, it might take me a bit!


End file.
